Amarillo, Texas, USA

24 July 1995

Sequoyah Proctor of the Long River School of Arcana double-checked the address and walked up the front sidewalk to the house of the first No-Maj-born child on his list. Proctor was one of four individuals in the United States doing this job this week, although his list was the longest. A quick look over the house gave him vital clues to what he would be dealing with. The Bible quote on the doormat and the decorative cross on the door were the most telling. There was also a small sign declaring support for the U.S. Army—possibly a Gulf War veteran in the home—and a pennant declaring support for the Dallas Cowboys. Other than that, the house looked much like any other in the area—cookie-cutter homes nestled tightly together with their neighbours with a few trees and a two-car garage in a land of endless subdivisions. The American Dream, he thought sarcastically.

On seeing the cross and the Bible quote, he pulled his own small cross necklace out of his shirt to rest on top of his robes. Things might be different in secularised Europe, or even at Salem, but given the sensitive nature of working with devoutly religious families, Long River and Cahokia always made sure the teacher sent to meet No-Maj-born children was a practising Christian, preferably of the Evangelical persuasion. There were more than a few of those even in the magical world, and Proctor was a proud member.

He rang the doorbell. A minute later, a young-looking woman in a conservative dress opened the door and squinted slightly into the sun. It was evening, shortly after the time when the average working family would eat dinner. It was always best to include both parents in this sort of thing, and at a convenient time for them, hence the odd working hours.

“Hello, can I help you?” she said.

“Good evening, are you Mrs. Taylor?” Proctor asked.

“Yes, I am.”

He offered his hand to her. “My name is Sequoyah Proctor,” he said, shaking her hand and also handing holding up a brochure. “I represent a school for gifted children called Long River. Your son, Joshua’s, test scores indicate that he might be a good fit for our program.” Not technically a lie. Honesty was important. “Would it be possible for me to speak to him with you and your husband?”

“Gifted students?” Mrs. Taylor asked. “Well, this is a surprise. I didn’t realise Josh was doing so well. You know how kids are. Never tell you anything. Come on in. I’ll go get Mark and Josh.” She motioned him into the house and called out, “Joshua, could you come down here, please?”

“Who is it honey?” a tall, thin man with a crew cut said. Proctor suspected he had found his Gulf War veteran.

“Mark, this is…was it Sequoyah?” she clarified.

“Yes, ma’am. Sequoyah Proctor, Mr. Taylor. I represent a school for gifted students, and we’re very interested in Joshua.”

“Really? Well, pleased to meet you Mr. Proctor. Sequoyah. That’s not a name you hear much these days.”

Proctor barely reacted. He got that a lot working with No-Majes. “No, not often, but my mother is Cherokee, so—”

“What’s up, Mom?” A tall boy interrupted amid a too-loud thudding down the stairs. He also wore a crew cut, though not as severe as his father’s. A smaller girl and an even smaller boy trailed along behind him.

“Rachael, Matt, you can go back upstairs,” Mrs. Taylor said. “This man is here to talk to Joshua about his schooling.”

“Actually, Mrs. Taylor, I think it would be helpful to talk to the whole family,” Proctor stopped her. “If your other children’s scores match Joshua’s we’ll be interested in them, too, when they reach sixth grade. Um, are these all the children?”

“Oh…uh, yes, just the three…well, I guess sit down, then. Kids, this is, Mr. Proctor. Mr. Proctor is from a school for gifted students in…where is your school?”

“Louisiana.”

“Louisiana?” Mr. Taylor said in surprise. “And you came all the way out here?”

“Yes, I did…” It was time to cut to the chase, he decided. “What I’m about to tell you is going to sound extraordinary—even absurd—but I hope you will hear me out.” That certainly put the parents on edge, and they eyed him suspiciously, but he pressed on. “May I ask, do you own a computer?”

“Yes, sir, we do,” Mr. Taylor said.

“Good. Now, this will sound odd, but imagine if I could take your computer back in time and show it to my eight-times-great grandfather in Salem, Massachusetts three hundred years ago. What do you think would happen?”

Mrs. Taylor laughed a little. “They’d burn you as a witch, of course.”

“Hang, actually, not burn, but you get the idea,” Proctor replied. “They would think it was pure witchcraft, even if I tried to explain it to them. I could show them a computer, and, assuming I had electricity and the right equipment and maybe an Internet connection, I could teach them to use a computer to write reports, run programs, play games, and read message boards. I could even try to explain the principles of electricity that make it run, but to the people of Salem in 1692, it would never be anything but magic.”

“Do you have a point with this, Mr. Proctor?” Mr. Taylor said irritably.

“Yes, I do. I want you to imagine that there exists technology that is as advanced to us today as a computer would have been to the people of the 1600s—technology that our science isn’t equipped to explain yet, and which is so far advanced in our eyes that we may as well just call it magic. Imagine that the ability to use this technology is genetic—that the technology will only respond to people with certain genetic markers, which are sometimes passed down in families and sometimes occur randomly. Imagine that this technology follows consistent scientific rules, and even though scientists don’t understand it yet, they are confident that it is explainable, just as the laws of electromagnetism that govern computers are explainable.”

“Why are you saying all this?” Mr. Taylor demanded.

“Because I want you to understand that when I say that magic is real, am I not referring to any Biblical or spiritual definition of magic. I’m referring to natural forces that appear to defy the natural order, but are in fact explainable at their root.”

Both parents gave Proctor an icy stare when he finished his speech, and Mr. Taylor said, “I think you need to leave, Mr. Proctor.”

And that was why he didn’t like using this gambit. This was the point where the No-Maj parents usually wanted to throw him out as a crank regardless of their religious views. “I will leave if you wish,” he said calmly, “but it will not change the truth of my words. Before you dismiss them, I want to ask you one question: has anything strange—anything unexplainable or impossible ever happened around Joshua, or any of your children, for that matter? Particularly when they were scared or angry?”

That stopped the entire family cold. The parents turned to look at their children worriedly, and the children looked back and forth between their parents and each other. Finally, Mrs. Taylor worked up the courage to speak up. “You mean things like…objects seeming to jump into the children’s hands, flowers blooming out of season, and mysterious failures of electrical appliances?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s precisely it. Those sorts of outbursts are common among the children we work with, and they are triggered by strong emotions.”

The family looked scared, now, especially Mr. and Mrs. Taylor. “How could you possibly know that?” the woman said shakily. “We’ve never told anyone.”

“We have ways of detecting those…events wherever they occur. We’ve detected quite a few of them around this house over the years.”

“So you’re saying,” Mr. Taylor said, “that our kids have these…these supernatural powers?”

“I did not say supernatural, Mr. Taylor.”

“I don’t care what you said! You’re talking witchcraft and sorcery. We do not associate with that, and we will not have you influencing our children with such talk. Kids, go back upstairs. Now. We’ll discuss this later,” he told his children. “Mr. Proctor, you have more than overstayed your welcome.”

Proctor sighed and took a step backwards towards the door. He hoped they would let him get his last couple of arguments in before he had to leave and resort to Plan B. (Plan B usually involved having a wizard pastor approach a No-Maj pastor who was known to the family.) But just before he spoke, Mrs. Taylor said, “Mark, wait.”

“Ruth, what is it?” Mr. Taylor said.

“I don’t think we should dismiss him so quickly.”

“Are you kidding me? You heard what he said!”

“Yes, Mark, I heard what he said. But I also know the kids haven’t been attending Black Masses or drinking chicken’s blood, and yet strange things keep happening around them. You’ve seen it, too. I don’t think they’re even doing it deliberately. How can you explain that?”

“I—I don’t know,” he said, with a pained expression. “I don’t know where they could have picked up something like that. We’ve tried to raise them right, keep them away from demonic influences—”

At that point, Proctor took his chance and interrupted, “If I may, Mr. and Mrs. Taylor, I’m a practising Southern Baptist, so I know where you’re coming from, and I understand your concern. But my whole argument was that what we call ‘magic’ today for convenience and historical reasons is not the same as what the Bible calls forbidden magic any more than electricity is. I firmly believe that it is scientifically explainable, even though we don’t understand the science, yet.”

That clearly didn’t assuage Mr. Taylor, and even Mrs. Taylor still looked conflicted, but at least they stopped trying to push him out the door. Proctor cast a furtive glance up at the stairs and was oddly pleased to see the three children eavesdropping behind their parents’ backs. “It’s one thing to say that,” Mr. Taylor said. “If you claim to know the Bible. You believe you can justify these…ideas of yours?”

“I think we’ve established that they’re more than just ideas.” Proctor considered giving them a demonstration now, but he held off a bit longer, hoping he could make them more comfortable with it first. “And yes, I can. Now, I will freely admit that there are a range of views about what we call magic, even among Christians. But the vast majority of us believe there is no conflict. First, there is the way that magic works. There are Christians, Jews, Atheists, Pagans, and all other major religions who are witches and wizards—again, this is the colloquial terminology inherited from centuries past. We all cast the same spells in the same way—or at least we can—without calling on any common spirits, demonic or otherwise. As I said, it’s not demonic at all. It’s genetic. Magic behaves essentially like science. It follows fixed laws that we can discern, and we can run repeatable experiments on it.”

“I suppose that would be fine if it’s true,” Mr. Taylor replied, “but you haven’t given us any evidence.”

“I know, and unfortunately, I can’t demonstrate very much that would be able to convince you on that point. But I will add another point: if you take a close look at the original Greek and Hebrew words involved—and if you make certain allowances, admittedly—then you’ll find that the only forms of magic that are unambiguously condemned by the Bible are divination and necromancy. Now, there is a long history of divination in the magical community, but there’s also a long history of divination in the No-Maj community—”

“No-Maj?” Mrs. Taylor cut in.

“Excuse me. No-magic. The point is that most schools in the Americas don’t teach divination anymore, and no reputable school has ever taught necromancy.”

Mr. and Mrs. Taylor stood silently in thought for a minute. This was a good sign, since they were actually considering his words. Eventually, Mr. Taylor said, “I admit that all sounds plausible, Mr. Proctor, but I hope you’ll forgive us if we’re hesitant to accept your interpretation.”

Proctor shrugged: “Not everyone does. There are a range of views. However, many, if not most witches and wizards in the United States are good Christian men and women who see their natural magic as just that—a natural talent—a gift from God, even. And they see forbidden magic that calls on spirits or demons as something entirely different and won’t have anything to do with it.

“I know some Christians who do practice divination and justify it by saying it’s as scientific as the rest of magic, and after all, there was a time when predicting the weather by No-Maj means was considered witchcraft. Personally, I think that it’s wishful thinking and rationalising away the plain meaning of the text. On the other hand, there are some of us who eschew magic entirely. However, even if your children choose that lifestyle, they will still need education in how to control their magic. Otherwise, these ‘strange occurrences’ will keep happening and will likely get worse.”

Mr. Taylor’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Do we get a choice in this?”

“Not exactly. There are a few tutors who teach the limited curriculum of just controlling magic, but I’m afraid that magical education is mandatory from the ages of eleven to sixteen.”

“How can you do that? It’s a free country!”

Proctor shook his head. “Not like that, Mr. Taylor. With No-Maj education, even with homeschooling, you’re free to educate your children in any way you wish, but you must educate them. Well, if you have magical children, you must educate them magically. That is enforced by the Department of Magical Education under the Magical Congress of the United States, the same as with ordinary school.”

“There’s a magical Congress?” Mr. Taylor slapped a hand to his forehead and was starting to look a bit faint. “God help us, one is bad enough.”

“I know the feeling. But even more important than that is the fact that you won’t want to stop your children’s magical education, either. You’ll at least need to have them taught in self-control. I told you, these strange occurrences they’ve been experiencing—what we call ‘accidental magic’—are fuelled by strong emotions, and without learning control, they’ll only get worse as they enter their teenage years—both more dangerous and more conspicuous to the outside world, neither of which are good for anyone involved. Ignoring it won’t work. Therapy won’t work. Strict discipline is as likely to make it worse, and ditto for exorcisms—and believe me, I’ve seen all of those and more. The only thing that will work is a competent magical education. Even if Joshua hangs up his wand for good when he turns sixteen, he’s going to need it.”

“His wand?” Mrs. Taylor said sceptically.

That seemed like as good an opportunity as any. Proctor drew a small stick from his sleeve and held it up for them to see. “This is a highly-refined instrument for focusing the natural energies around us and making them do useful work—or, as we prefer to call it because it’s easier, a magic wand. He pointed the stick at the television set and said, “Wingardium Leviosa.” The Taylor Family all gasped as the TV rose into the air, spun around once, and then settled back down.

“Woooow!”

“Josh!” Mr. Taylor spun around as all three of his children ran down the stairs.

“Rachael! Matt!” Mrs. Taylor said. “Were you listening the whole time?”

The kids all nodded before they realised that might get them in trouble.

“We told you to go upstairs.”

The older two children looked sorry at once, but little Matt piped up, “Can you teach us how to do that, Mr. Proctor?”

“Matt, shut up!” Joshua whispered.

“We’re not doing anything for sure yet,” Mr. Taylor said sternly. “Mr. Proctor was only here about Joshua, and we need to think it over and pray about it before we decide anything.”

“But you did say it was all three of them, didn’t you?” Mrs. Taylor asked.

Proctor shook his head: “I only know about Joshua for sure. It’s in our records. But if you’ll permit me—” He held up his wand. “—there’s an easy way to find out.”

Mrs. Taylor looked to her husband questioningly, and he huffed and rolled his eyes, but he said, “Oh, fine. It’s not like this day can get any crazier.”

He waved his wand and muttered an incantation. A golden aura flashed around him and all three of the Taylor children, who stared at each other eagerly. “Yes, it’s all three of them,” he said. “You may not appreciate this now, but that’s lucky. It’s usually easier on families if all of the children are one or the other. Now, I know this is difficult for you, but I want to try to help.” He pulled out a pen (not a quill) and wrote down some names. “I’d like to connect you with my pastor, Hezekiah Jackson. He’s also a wizard and is ordained by the Southern Baptist Convention, so he can explain the Biblical arguments better than I can. And I’d also like to connect you with some people who have given up magic because of their religious views, so you can make an informed decision.”

That kind of a show of goodwill usually went a long way and it clearly took the parents by surprise. He’d been so intent on selling the idea of magic that it didn’t seem to have occurred to them that he would advocate giving it up. “I…we…that’s very generous of you, Mr. Proctor.”

“Just doing my job, ma’am. These sorts of concerns aren’t uncommon. I just ask that you make some time to talk it over with the people I connect you with, and then, we can discuss Joshua’s educational options at a later date, say, in a week?”

The parents thought that over, and Mr. Taylor eventually agreed: “I think we can live with that, Mr. Proctor.”

“Very well. Good evening to you.” Well, that wasn’t so bad, Proctor thought as he left. He’d certainly seen much worse cases in his time.

Sequoyah Proctor returned to the Taylors’ home one week later and was relieved to find them far more receptive to him than last time. It had taken, from what he understood, several very long conversations with the people he sent to them on both sides of the issue, including Pastor Hezekiah, as well as a lot of prayer and soul-searching, before they came to terms with their children’s gifts and accepted the prevailing view (among wizards) that it was not one of the forbidden arts of the Bible. And as such, they were willing to consider Mr. Proctor’s school. The children, of course, were all very excited at the prospect of getting to learn magic with clear consciences.

“I do thank you for keeping an open mind,” Proctor told them when he arrived, “and for having me back here.”

“Of course, Mr. Proctor,” Mr. Taylor replied, much more kindly than before, “and we thank you and the others’ for your support. It’s been a difficult week for us.”

“Well, you’re not the first. There are plenty of families who have the same concerns. But since we’ve reached an understanding we can discuss Joshua’s options for schooling, and I can also answer any other questions you have about magical society.” Of course, all of the children were present, since they would likely be attending together in a few years.

“So we have a few options?” Mrs. Taylor said.

“Yes, ma’am. There are four schools in the United States—all boarding schools given the large distances involved—which all have open enrolment. There are also private tutors who teach a standard curriculum in the addition to the limited one I mentioned last week, and he could apply as an exchange student to a foreign school, but without connections in the magical world, both of the last two would be very difficult. We strongly recommend No-Maj-born students get some exposure to the magical community so that they’re not complete strangers by the time they finish.”

“Well…we never really considered boarding school before, but if it’s the best option we should probably go with it. Are the schools very different from each other?”

“Yes. Each school reflects the culture and magical traditions of its part of the country. My school is the Long River School of Arcana, situated in the bayou west of New Orleans. I teach Defensive Magic, and I’m also Dean of Admissions. Here’s our brochure.” He handed them a booklet that showed pictures of a complex of buildings and causeways snaking through a swampy forest. They were surprised to see the water rippling, and the vines swaying as they looked.

“They move!” Joshua exclaimed.

“Well, of course they do. Now, Long River is the most diverse of the four schools. We have, I believe, the most active Christian community of any of the four schools, but also other traditions. Of course, Native American culture is strong throughout the country. About ten percent of the American magical community is still Native American. We also have curanderos and other Latino wizards from here in Texas. We have African religious and magical traditions passed down from the days of the slave trade. We have voodoo practitioners from Cajun Country and the Caribbean. And that diversity has attracted a lot of immigrants from around the world to the South. It’s a little bit different from what you’re probably used to in Texas.”

“Interesting. What about the other schools?” Mr. Taylor asked.

“All different, of course. If you want the really traditional ‘Quodpot, mom, and apple pie’ America, you’ll want to go up to the Cahokia School of Magic and Midewiwin in Illinois.”

“What’s Quodpot?” Joshua interrupted.

Proctor smiled: “Imagine football played while flying on broomsticks, except instead of four downs, there’s a time limit before the ball explodes.”

“Explodes?” Mrs. Taylor said worriedly.

“Sweet!” Joshua and Matt exclaimed in unison.

“Um…we’ll worry about sports later,” Mr. Taylor said. “You were talking about…”

“Cahokia,” Proctor said. He handed them the brochure. “It’s hidden in what’s officially an undeveloped stretch of forest in southern Illinois. Most of the students from the Midwest go there, and it’s generally regarded as the most ‘traditionally American’ of the schools. Their core curriculum is pretty standard, but they also have some good regional studies such as hex signs.”

The Cahokia complex looked a little odd. It was set on a small stretch of prairie, but was encircled all around by trees. The large central building looked like it could have been lifted from an Antebellum plantation, but several other buildings on campus looked like Native American longhouses, with a variety of smaller outbuildings. But they didn’t dwell on the details before Proctor moved on to the next one.

“The third brochure is for the Salem Witches’ Institute in Massachusetts, which, despite the name, is coed. Now, Salem is built on the European model—old, ivy covered halls, uniforms, arcane traditions—the works. The course offerings reflect that, too. It’s the only American school that offers divination, and the only one that requires astronomy. It’s also unusual, as magical schools go, because most of them try to hide their existence. Being on the East Coast, that’s a little hard for them, so they generally just try to blend in and look like a No-Maj boarding school. And it’s also a short train ride away from the MACUSA headquarters in New York.”

“That was something else we were wondering about,” Mr. Taylor said. “How is it that you have your own government?”

“Well, MACUSA is older than the United States Government, but today, we function under a similar system to the federally recognised Native American Tribes. We basically have control of our own affairs, and we liaise only with the President and the head of the Bureau of Indian Affairs—plausible deniability, and all that. Anyway, the last brochure is for La Escuela Hechicería de la Sierra Nevada in California.”

The Taylors turned to the last booklet and saw a complex that looked like a scaled up Spanish mission, but incongruously surrounded by redwoods.

“Cool, it looks like in Star Wars,” Joshua said.

“It’s a redwood forest, Joshua. There’s nothing alien about it—I hope,” his father said. “Would Joshua have to know Spanish—?”

“No, they teach in English,” Proctor said. “They mostly serve the western states and share a lot of that cultural influence. They teach the ritual practises of the pueblo peoples, the curandero tradition, a lot of nature magic, that sort of thing.”

“Hmm…there’s a lot of material here,” Mrs. Taylor said. “When do you need a decision?”

“Not until the end of August, although the next week or two would be best. I also have some guides to the magical population centres and transportation methods around the country, which should help you should you choose to do any shopping or just sightseeing in the meantime.” Proctor handed over some more papers of various sorts. “I would recommend getting a hold of some basic introductory books and taking out a subscription to a magical newspaper. But most importantly, I have a special notice I’ve been asked to give all the No-Maj-born students that MACUSA has issued a travel warning for the British Isles.”

The Taylors stopped and stared at him. “The British Isles?” Mr. Taylor said. “A travel warning? Like…England, the British Isles?” Proctor nodded. “Why?”

“You have to understand, conflicts don’t always occur in the same places in the magical world as the No-Maj one. I’m afraid there’s a terrorist uprising in Britain right now. The terrorist leader, Voldemort, is on a crusade against No-Majes and No-Maj-born wizards. It’s an old prejudice, stronger over there than it is here. If you go there even as No-Majes, there’s a good chance someone could spot your children for magicals, and that would attract attention you don’t want.”

“Wow…this is more complicated than I thought.”

“It always is. And related to that, I have a piece of advice for you: go buy Josh a wand from Old Coyote soon.”

“Who? What?” Mrs. Taylor said.

“Old Coyote. He’s a wandmaker. There are others, of course, but he’s probably the best in the Western Hemisphere. His store is in the magical district of New Orleans. But he’s leaving for Britain soon. He has an assignment from the International Confederations of Wizards to investigate one of Voldemort’s allies. So you’ll want to visit him before too much time passes.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Is it really that bad over there?”

“Not yet, but it could turn bad fast. It’s always hard to say…But the Brits have Albus Dumbledore on their side, at least, and he’s probably the greatest wizard in the world, plus that boy hero of theirs, Harry Potter.”

“Who’s Harry Potter?” Joshua spoke up.

“Harry Potter,” Proctor repeated. “You can read all about him. He’s written two books of his own about all the things he’s done. I can barely believe it, myself. Only fourteen years old, and he’s the only person ever to survive the Killing Curse—which is just what it sounds like. He’s an animagus—he can turn into a cat—which is supposed to be impossible for children. He’s supposed to be brilliant at wandless magic, which most wizards never even learn. We actually corresponded about a year ago about whether we would be willing to admit werewolves. He seems like a good kid, but now, he’s all mixed up in fighting Voldemort, apparently. At least, a lot of people over there are putting their faith in him. But after all that, who know what will happen?”

“A fourteen-year-old’s done all that?” Mrs. Taylor said. “That sounds like a wild fairy tale.”

“Well, sure, it’s magic, isn’t it?” Joshua exclaimed, and his brother and sister both laughed.

Sydney, New South Wales, Australia

29 July 1995

Edward Grayson roamed his large manor outside of Sydney, packing the remaining items for his relocation. Normally, he believed in travelling light, but for this assignment he would need all of his spellbooks, potions, and wizarding equipment. These he would ship ahead of him while he continued to follow the songlines himself. The journey back to Britain was some twelve thousand miles. Since he knew the routes well after world tour, he could cover that in a week without much trouble, or four or five days in a pinch. At the moment, it seemed that he had enough time to use that method of travel. He really didn’t like international Portkeys.

“I still don’t see why you have to go, Grandpa,” a young voice said. “Rwanda was bad enough. Shouldn’t Dumbledore be able to handle his own bloomin’ country?”

Grayson’s granddaughter, Kylie, was an extremely gifted young witch at the start of her professional career, easily the mostly likely in the family to follow in Edward’s footsteps. This was all the more impressive because so much of traditional Australian magic was gender-specific that she had to learn most of it on her own rather than from her grandfather. And like any good granddaughter, she didn’t want to seem him go off on another dangerous mission.

“Dumbledore is a hundred and fourteen years old,” Edward told her. “He’s getting careless in his old age. He’s making mistakes. He really had no business fighting in East Africa, but he did anyway. This war could be the death of him if he doesn’t have good help.”

“And you almost got killed in East Africa, too. You didn’t have to join that task force. I know it’s for a good cause, but is it really a good idea for you to get mixed up in another war overseas.”

“Someone has to do it, Kylie. Who else could do it better? You know I’ve spent my whole life fighting oppression around the world. I’m one of the few wizards alive who’s considered Voldemort’s equal.”

“But you don’t even have the backing of the Ministry or the ICW this time.”

That was an oversimplification. Officially, Edward Grayson’s new position was Special Envoy to the British Ministry, and officially, neither the Australian Ministry nor the ICW was getting involved in an internal British matter. However, they were interested in apprehending La Pantera and any other foreign dark wizards who might show their faces there, and that meant tacit approval for an envoy who would de facto involve himself in the brewing civil war.

“You talk like that Voldemort person’s worse than Grindelwald,” she said.

“He is,” Edward said, to her surprise. “Not in scale—at least not yet—but in depravity. He’s deeper into dark magic than anyone I’ve ever heard of. I probably shouldn’t even tell you, but…go to Uluru and look in the Dark Magic section of the library for something called a horcrux, and then keep in mind that Voldemort made seven of them. And if that weren’t enough, he has allies now. There could be a lot of bloodshed if we don’t stop him soon.”

Kylie sighed and stepped forward and hugged him. “I’m gonna worry about you, Grandpa,” she said. “All of us are.”

“I know, my little Wallaby,” he said, patting her on the back, “but I can take care of myself. I need you to stay strong. You’ve got work to do here, too.”

She looked up at him in confusion. “Work to do here?” she said.

“That’s right. There’s a job to be done here at home, and I’d feel a lot better about it if you were in charge of it.”

“What job? Things are going pretty smooth around here.”

“Yes, that’s exactly the point.” Edward paused for a moment to label the final boxes, idly swishing his wand, marking them, Deliver to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Scotland, c/o Albus Dumbledore. The movers would be here in a few hours to ship them. As for the rest of the house, he left instructions for the caretaker to maintain it and for the groundskeeper to tend the animals, as he had last year. “You should keep the Tasmanian tigers with you, like last year,” he told Kylie. “They don’t do as well on their own.” She nodded. “Now, did I ever tell you how things were during the last British civil war?” he asked.

“You’ve said a lot over the years. I’m not sure which part you’re getting at,” Kylie said.

“Over there, things were really bad,” he told her. “Muggle-borns were being killed regularly. Anyone who spoke out was a target. The British Ministry was on the verge of collapse, and people were afraid of what would happen next. A lot them left the country.”

Grayson surveyed the wilderness outside his manor—the wilderness of his homeland. He would miss it. He’d loved it from his youth and had all but learnt every hill and valley. It ran in his blood. And he also knew how much it meant to the refugees he had welcomed to the country when he was Minister.

“Do you know,” he said, “that over in Britain, when people leave to get away from trouble, they don’t say they’re going to Canada; they don’t say they’re going to South Africa; they don’t say they’re going to India. They say they’re going to Australia. That’s not because we’re as far and out of the way as possible. If that were it, they’d be better off in New Zealand. It’s because, during the last war, we offered sanctuary to refugees from Britain, especially muggle-borns. I’ve been talking to Minister Hitchcock, and he’s agreed that now that Voldemort’s back, we’re going to do it again. This was never just Britain’s war, no matter how much the ICW wanted it to be. We were involved from the start, and somebody is going to need to keep the home front running smoothly.”

Kylie’s lips parted slightly, and she stared at her grandfather as she considered his words. “Keep the home front…” she said. “I get the feeling there’s more to it than that, Grandpa.” Grandpa knew how gifted she was. It didn’t take a powerful handpicked leader to tend to a bunch of refugees. Therefore, he had something more in mind.

“Very good, Wallaby,” Edward said with a smile. “You’ve been paying attention. It’s more than just refugees during. In the last war, we took in fighters from both sides—were followers of Dumbledore with a price on their heads and followers of Voldemort who wanted out—not many, but some. When I was Minister, I made it my policy to find them and question them—again, on both sides, but especially the Death Eaters. It wasn’t easy, I’ll tell you. We had to find them in the crowd, and a lot of them went to a lot of trouble to hide, but I had good people rooting them out. It’s a tall order, but I think you can handle it.”

Kylie stood taller and more determinedly: “I think I can do that. What information are you going to need?”

“Anything you can get. In the last war, I wanted to know exactly what was going on in case it went international, and I wanted to give what little help I could to Dumbledore and the British Ministry. This time, we know it’s going international. It might not leave Europe, but it could at any time. I need any intel on Voldemort’s plans you can wring out of them.”

“You’re talking about de facto involving ourselves directly, and not just through the ICW,” she reasoned. “That’s a bold move.”

“Officially, we’re protecting our own personnel.”

“Meaning you.”

“Pretty much yes. You know the ICW’s mission: apprehend La Pantera. If Voldemort doesn’t like it, that’s his business.”

“Except that he won’t like, and he will make it our business no matter what we say. So by sending that mission, the ICW is effectively saying it’s intervening in the fight. I am paying attention to geopolitics, you know. They’re practically daring Voldemort to make this an international conflict, and this move says you’re not going freelance like you did in East Africa…you’re behind the whole thing, aren’t you?”

Edward smiled and patted her on the shoulder. He surveyed the sitting room one last time. “I definitely had some influence on it,” he said. “That’s the last box. Let’s go take a walk.”

The typical temperature in Sydney in July was around fifteen degrees Celsius, but the sun was out today, and it staved off the slight winter nip. Edward and Kylie started on a circuit around the colourful garden of the manor, magically enhanced to be in full bloom year-round. After admiring the view for a few minutes, Edward spoke again: “Your a very bright girl, Kylie. Don’t ever think I believed otherwise. The big unknown here is whether Voldemort will take the dare to shield his ally. From what I can gather, he doesn’t play well with others.”

“Except if allies like you join Dumbledore, Voldemort might decide he still needs her,” Kylie said, starting to get the picture. “So you going makes it more likely for this to go international.”

“It makes it more likely for the ICW to have the political justification to send a full peacekeeping force and hopefully end the war quickly,” her grandfather clarified. “But I’m afraid. Voldemort would rather it did for now, but I’m sure he’d make a move on the Continent once he solidified his control of Britain, and by then, he’ll be a lot harder to dislodge. But I talked it over with Dumbledore, and we think if we can mobilise an ICW peacekeeping force before he’s prepared, we can put him down before he causes too much trouble…Of course, that does mean if it backfires, it’ll do so much more spectacularly.”

Kylie muttered a short chant under her breath that was a supplication to the Rainbow Serpent for aid, roughly the same as Europeans would say “Merlin help us.” “Do you think this could turn into another Grindewald’s War, Grandpa?”

“No,” he replied firmly. “No, I don’t. The world isn’t the same as it was in 1939. There aren’t big, international conflicts in the muggle world for Voldemort to play off of—certainly not in Europe. America is the only dominant power in the muggle world. But it could get very bad—much worse than in the seventies—if Voldemort really gets dug in and decides to do what Jugashvili did in the Caucasus—ignite a wave of terrorist violence in the muggle world, sweeping out of the Balkans or perhaps from North Africa and across Europe. If he tries that, it could make the Troubles in Ireland look like a barbie, and we could even be looking at muggle military intervention into those regions.”

“Which could easily involve the Australian muggle government,” Kylie reasoned shrewdly.

“You see where this is going. The Americans, too. It won’t be another Grindelwald’s War, but it could be the Caucasus all across Europe. That’s what we’re trying to stop. That’s why I have to go.”

“You’re right,” Kylie agreed quickly, leaning in to hug him again. “You’re right, Grandpa. You know we’ll still worry about you, though.”

“I know, Wallaby.”

“You realise you’re basically baiting Voldemort with yourself as the bait.”

“The thought crossed my mind, yes. I won’t insult you by pretending it’s all perfectly safe, but you know I can take care of myself. Frankly, at this point, I suspect I can take care of myself better than Dumbledore can. Just remember, I’m doing this for you—for you and for Australia.

“Now, back to the refugees, there’s something more you should know. If this goes worldwide, you can be sure Voldemort will have agents worldwide. They’re going to try to cause trouble here. And that’s what I really need your help for…If we’re going to make this nation a sanctuary, we’ll have to defend our shores from Death Eaters seeking revenge…You will have to defend them. Minister Hitchcock has agreed to form a new Defence Committee in the Home Department. I asked him to put you in charge of it, if you’ll take the position.”

“What? Me?” Kylie said in shock. “That’s—I mean, I’m only twenty-four. Surely, there are more qualified witches and wizards.”

“Not many. And you’re the same age I was in 1940, when my father put me in the same position during Grindelwald’s War.”

Yes, she remembered that from her grandfather’s stories. Still, it wasn’t the kind of job she was ever expecting to have. “I don’t know much about that kind of thing,” she said.

“Then surround yourself with trustworthy people who do. I know you can do it. You’re bright, capable, magically talented, and you love this country as much as I do. I trust you with this.”

“Wow, I…thank you, Grandpa, but…when does Hitchcock need an answer?”

“Preferably within a week. If something comes up, we can stretch it till the end of August, but come the first of September, Dumbledore wants to have all players in place, and I agree with him.”

“The start of the school year.”

“Right. For obvious reasons.”

“Okay, then, I’ll think it over, talk to Mum and Dad, probably, and I’ll tell Hitchcock by next weekend…either way, I’m glad you think so highly of me.”

“Just give it your full consideration. That’s all I ask. Well…I think that’s it. I need to leave now if I want to make New Guinea by nightfall.”

“Mind if I come with you to the Torres Straight, Grandpa?” Kylie asked.

Edward smiled: “I would like that very much, Wallaby.”

They walked up the nearby hill out of sight of the muggles and began to sing the chants for the songline that followed the eastern coast. They chanted in a kind of counterpoint, since large parts of the songline had different men’s and women’s parts, and even though no words could be exchanged for most of those hundreds of miles, they both still counted it as quality bonding time.

Mouth of the R ío Ulúa, Honduras, Oxwitik Cooperative

31 July 1995

In most places, it was not usual for a riverboat to appear on the ocean. It was even less usual for it to appear out of thin air with a loud bang. It was less usual still for nine of them to do the same thing in the space of a few minutes. But the few locals in the area would never notice this because they had suddenly been inundated by a freak thunderstorm—a thunderstorm that struck every year without fail on the thirty-first of July, at eleven o’clock in the morning on the dot, and always ended at eleven twenty-two, like clockwork.

When the storm clouds cleared, nine old-fashioned paddle wheel boats flying the flags of eight Central American and Caribbean nations and one United States Territory converged on the estuary and began steaming their way up the Río Ulúa. The area was sparsely populated, dotted with stands of palm trees and mangroves and stretches of farmland here and there. There would be more people upriver—more farmland and the occasional town until they got into the more forested and mountainous regions of Honduras—but for some reason, people never seemed to look that closely at the nine boats that sailed up the river every year the day before the school term started throughout much of Central America. If they did, they might have thought it was a bit odd that boats from nine countries should sail together, or that each boat was marked with a crest that looked like a resplendent quetzal in mid-flight and the words Escuela Oxwitik, or that each seemed to be carrying several dozen schoolchildren and only a couple of adults, all dressed in rather unusual clothes.

Another oddity about these boats: as soon as they got close enough to one another, they lashed together corner to corner and began extending gangplanks from one to the next—which was unwieldy because of the paddle-wheels, but they did it anyway—forming a network that allowed anyone to walk from one end of the convoy to the other, which is just what many of the children started doing—walking up and down the length of the boats to catch up with their friends.

One boy named Pakal Ahaual stepped off the largest of the riverboats, the one from Guatemala, walking down through the convoy to the next smaller one, from Cuba. Pakal felt conflicted this year. The mood in his home country was lighter than it had been in some ways this summer. They had been given reprieve from a very worrying threat up north. But lesser bad actors had been making up the difference and somehow causing more racial strife than there had been before.

He tried to ignore the thought and scanned the deck until he spotted a short, black boy on the second boat and waved to him, calling, “César! Yo, César!”

“Hola, Pakal!” César called back, dashing over to the gangplank. “What’s up, man? How was your summer?”

“Ugh. Complicated.” Pakal said. “So how are you? I see you managed to escape the dark island once again.”

“Oh, come off it, bro, it’s only the muggles who are trying to stop us from leaving, and there’s only, like, five of them who know about us in the first place.”

Pakal’s best friend, César Corrales, hailed from Cuba, which was one of the few countries where the magical and muggle governments were not on good terms with each other, even by the lax standards of wizards. Purebloods like him mostly shrugged it off, though.

“Fine. Fine. Your summer was good, then?”

“Yeah. We went down to Machu Picchu for a week.”

“You went to another school?” Pakal said.

“Not the school: the town—the one by the old ruins. You should see it. It’s loco, how they do it. The one side of the place is crawling with muggles, and we’re right there on the other side of the mountain, doing magic and everything. They still use the ruins for their astronomical rituals, too.”

“Well, sure. They still use our pyramids, and those are six hundred years older,” Pakal said, but he immediately felt self-conscious. Pakal was almost pure Mayan blood, but it wasn’t a fact that he like to advertise at school, still less that his family still followed the old Mayan traditions. It garnered a few too many suspicious looks these days. “Hey, have you seen Idania yet?” he changed the subject.

“No, she’s probably still back with the other Nicaraguans.”

“Let’s go find her before she blows something up.” He took off astern, barely taking the time to wave to his other Cuban acquaintances and practically jumping from the one boat to the next.

The nine boats in the convoy were all furnished with the same old Spanish and Mesoamerican decor, despite the overall “Mississippi riverboat” look and were arranged from the largest, Guatemala, with more than a hundred students on board, in the front, to the smallest, Panama, with only twenty-five, in the rear, giving the whole thing a surprisingly unified appearance. The Nicaraguan contingent was in the middle of the pack, but it turned out that Idania had already started looking for them, because almost as soon as they crossed that next gangplank, there she was, right in front of them.

And both boys stared a little.

At thirteen, Idania Amador was already regarded as one of the prettiest girls in her year, and after a summer away, made up for the first day of school, and wearing a new summer dress, that assessment could only improve, which meant that even her two closest male friends were stuck staring long enough for her to run up to them and giggle at their predicament.

“Um, hola, Idania,” Pakal recovered. “Y-you look…”

“Candente,” César said unabashedly.

Idania giggled again: “Muchas gracias, boys. You didn’t get in too much trouble without me this summer, did you?”

“Ha. I don’t think it’s possible for us to get in more trouble than you, Idania,” César replied.

“I was mostly trying to avoid it,” Pakal said more softly.

“Well, I had an excellent summer,” Idania said. “Padre y Madre finally let start tutoring in duelling. My instructor says I might be able to go to the Junior North American Open next year.”

“¡Dios mío!” César said. “As if you’re not scary enough already.”

Idania laughed: “Oh, you didn’t think you could avoid it, did you? You knew I wanted to learn. I’m not sure how we’ll work it into our schedule, though. Padre y Madre will be campaigning in the muggle world next summer. You know how it is.”

Idania may have been a budding natural beauty, but she was a challenge for the boys to keep up with. Not only was she a first-rate troublemaker, but she also generated more controversy than most of her classmates put together, not least because of her friendship with César. Most wizards in Cuba opposed the muggle government for its attempts to control the magical population, and Idania’s parents, though magical, were dyed-in-the-wool Sandinistas—the now-out of power democratic socialists with close ties to the Cuban communists. It was no surprise that, as a traditional Maya, Pakal was thick with his fellow misfits by the end of their first year.

César merely rolled his eyes at her pronouncement, but Pakal was willing to take an interest in her politics. “Oh?” he asked. “Any better prospects than last time?”

“No, not really, unfortunately, but we’re going to keep up the good fight. Anyway, what about your summers? You boys do anything interesting?”

Pakal opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by shouting coming from back up the convoy.

“There he is!”

“Hey! Hey! There you are, Ahaual!”

Pakal groaned. It was the same group of Ladinos from the Guatemalan boat who were being jerks to him and the other Maya for the whole trip.

“Ahaual, we’ve got something to say to you if you’re done sacrificing to Itzamna,” the leader said. He was a particularly angry-looking boy whom Pakal recognised by his face, but didn’t remember his name.

“All hail Itzamna! All hail Itzamna!” the boy’s friends mocked with ominous voices, waving their hands as if it were some dark Druidic chant.

Pakal fought the urge to hex the hecklers. He’d already been trying to evade them all morning. “That’s not even an insult, idiotas!” he yelled back.

“Not to you!” they said.

“Will you three just lay off?” he said.

“Hey, you don’t get to talk to us like that after this summer!” the leader of the pack said, stepping forward. “I’m surprised you even showed up. You decided to come back to school now that your mistress is gone?”

“La Pantera is not my mistress,” Pakal growled. “I hate what she’s doing, and I’m glad to see the back of her.”

“Her back-side, you mean,” one of them sneered, sparking a round of laughter.

Idania jumped in front of her friend: “Ew! That’s just gross!”

“No, man, I heard she’s into women,” the third one said. “Better watch out, chica. Your friend there might get a bonus for bringing you in.”

Pakal fumed. That was over the line.

Of course, Idania could take care of herself. Holding one hand out to hold Pakal back, she drew her wand and said, “You’d better watch out, niño. I might have to call you out for duelling practice.”

“You stay out of this, Amador!” the leader snapped and got right up Pakal’s face. “This is between us and Ahaual.”

Pakal really didn’t want his friends getting into this fight, so he stepped out from behind Idania. “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he said.

“Bit late for that, isn’t it? Your kind’s been causing a us lot of trouble.”

Cortez. That was his name.

“They’re not my kind,” Pakal insisted, his voice rising. “They’re a few nuts who try to speak for us when they’re not even Maya. They’re Aztec.”

“Are they? The bastards who took our freaking dog last month didn’t sacrifice him to Tezcatlipoca. They sacrificed him to Itzamna. You know my dad’s been one of the people pushing the Ministry needs to do something about the Dark Lady? The Ministry your kind runs? You know they told Padre to shut up, or my little sister would be next? Huh?!”

The younger boy held up his hands and took a step back from the irate fifth-year. His hands were shaking. “Look, I’m sorry about your dog, but we don’t do that. We farm our own animals, we haven’t done human sacrifice in three hundred years.”

“Liar!” Cortez yelled.

“And we don’t support La Pantera!” Of course, he couldn’t include his extended family in that. Embarrassingly, he knew he had a cousin or two who was in the Dark Lady’s camp.

“You guys leave him alone!” César said. Both he and Idania both had their wands out now and looked to be about to start hexing.

“Out of our way, chicos—” Cortez and his friends stomped forward, wands drawn.

Spells flew. César was flat on his back almost immediately. Idania stood her ground, but she was soon buckling under a more experienced opponent. Cortez fired off hexes at Pakal.

CRACK! In a burst of uncontrolled magic, a sudden wind blew and knocked Cortez over. Pakal looked down at his wand in surprise. Had he done that?

The other boys turned on him.

“Protego! Leave us alone!” he screamed. “I am not a follower of Meztli Ocelotl La Pantera de Veracruz, Itzamna damn her to Xibalba! So back off!”

The gang of Ladinos gasped, and everyone in earshot felt silent. Unlike Voldemort, La Pantera actually wanted people to use her assumed name. And also unlike Voldemort, there was no dark superstition regarding her true name. It was just that everyone knew that she took personal offence to anyone who didn’t use her chosen title. Arguably, Pakal had called her by an acceptable formal mode of address, but the epithet he added would it cancel out.

“You’re insane!” Cortez yelled.

“Or a double agent!” one of his friends said.

“Come on, better avoid him,” the third said. “There no telling what he could do.” The older boys fled, no doubt to spread the word.

“Huh, I didn’t think that would work,” Pakal said once they walked away. He turned to see his two best friends staring at him in horror.

“Uh…Pakal, buddy…I know you don’t like That Woman,” César said, “but cursing her to the heavens is a really bad idea.”

“Yeah,” Idania added. “I’m sure everyone will know by the time we get to school.”

“I know, I know,” he groaned. “I just couldn’t take it anymore. And it’s not exactly a secret that my family is against her. It’s been like this all summer at home. Everyone stares like they’re scared of us, especially ones like us who follow the old rites. We almost have to take a side. And worse, they mock our faith just because they’re scared we’re going dark or something. I mean, come on. You don’t see me making fun of Santiago or La Inmaculada Concepción, do you?”

“No, no we don’t. You’re always very respectful, Pakal,” Idania assured him. “But come on, let’s get out of here before a chaperon shows up.”

They walked off in the other direction, farther down the convoy, and kept going until they reached the stern of the small Panamanian boat.

“Well, that was exciting,” Idania said. “So how was summer, you two?”

César answered first, repeating his story of his trip to Machu Picchu for her.

“Wow, that sounds great,” she opined. “I wish we had more places like that in Nicaragua.”

“Trust me, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be,” Pakal countered.

“You shouldn’t be ashamed of your heritage,” she said.

“I’m not ashamed of my heritage!” he snapped. “I ashamed of what some people are doing with it, like those idiotas. Really! Human sacrifices? We don’t need to go back to those days. It’s the twentieth damn century. We’re better than that. But some of my people can’t see that, and then some of the Ladinos can’t see that we’re not all like that—no offence.” He took a deep breath as he came off his rant.

His friends just stared at him.

Finally, Idania said, “Do you feel better now?”

He took another deep breath. “Yeah, better,” he said. “Itzamna, I missed you guys.” It had been so hard the last few years. La Pantera was more of a standard crime boss than most dark lords and ladies, but everyone knew she had it in her mind to unite all of the old Mesoamerican witches and wizards—which included all of Guatemala and Belize and the southern half of Mexico—under the banner of the old ways. And that put a big wedge between the Maya and Aztecs and the Latino, Ladino, and otherwise Spanish-descended wizards even though many of the ethnic pueblos indígenas were against her, and between the recruiting and the threats, her influence in both groups seemed to grow year by year. And traditionalists like Pakal bore the brunt of it.

“It’s still rough at home, then?” César asked.

“Depends who you ask. In some ways, it’s not as bad as it was.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “We’ve had a break there this past year because La Pantera’s out of the country. But it’s got worse, too, because our Ministry decided to go after her organisation while she’s away, and they’re fighting back.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” said César. “She disappears from Veracruz for months, and the next anyone hears of her, she’s in England working with that other dark wizard—Señor Vuelodelamuerte, I think.”

“I’m pretty sure he calls himself Lord Voldemort,” Idania said disdainfully. “‘Lord.’ Why do they always call themselves Lords and Ladies? Wannabee aristocrats, the lot of them. Hmpf, I guess I should be glad there aren’t so many democratic socialist dark wizards to make us look bad.”

“They probably want to sound more important,” César suggested.

“They don’t all,” Pakal said in a small voice. Both of his friends looked to him in surprise. This wasn’t a topic he liked to talk about much. “They don’t all call themselves lords and ladies. La Pantera actually goes by Sacerdotista Pantera—the Jaguar Priestess. The ‘Dark Lady’ bit was something they came up with in the States.”

“I didn’t know that,” Idania said.

“Not many people call her that besides her followers,” he said. “She’s not a priestess of any religion respectable people follow. That’s why most people just say La Pantera.”

“Huh. I wonder what’s gonna happen in Britain now that they’ve teamed up.”

“I don’t care. I’m just glad to get her away from us, and it’d be great if she took her followers with her.”

“That’s not very nice,” Idania huffed. “They’re gonna be in as much trouble as your people were.”

“It’s not that bad for Britain, is it?” asked César. “They’ve got Albus Dumbledore, don’t they? He won Grindelwald’s War practically single-handed.”

“Dumbledore?” Idania said. “I don’t know. He’s gotta be getting really old by now.”

“I don’t think Voldemort’s exactly a spring chicken, either,” Pakal said. “Didn’t he first show up in, like, the sixties? I dunno. My magical world history isn’t great.”

“Yeah, I think that’s right. And Dumbledore’s not alone either,” César added. “He’s got Harry Potter, and he won that tournament and killed a basilisk and a bunch of other stuff. And Grayson from Australia’s been hanging around there.”

“That’ll help them, but it’s still gonna be bad for them. Everybody’s saying it,” Idania said.

“Well, I hope Dumbledore and Grayson and Potter and whoever else they’ve got get both of them,” Pakal said. “I just don’t want her to come back. Of course, she’s obviously prepared to be away for a while, the way her supporters are carrying on without her.”

“Alright, but you should chill, Pakal,” Idania said. “Come on, we’re going back to school, and most of us aren’t into Guatemalan politics. You can get a break from all that mess.”

“Yeah, I know—mostly. I just wish there was some way I could convince people I’m not like them.”

“Pakal, you can’t do anything more than what you’re already doing. You already stand up and show everyone that there’s a better way. You’re nice and considerate to people on general principle, you help them when they ask for it, and you don’t call down curses on people you don’t like—usually. You’re living proof that you can follow the old Mayan religion and not be dark.”

Pakal and César stopped and stared at her.

“Okay, that was a little scary,” César said. “Who are you, and what have you done with our daughter of La Revolución?”

Idania sighed dramatically. “Hey, I can be sensitive when I want to be,” she sniffed. “La hija de La Revolución is still here, but I told you a long time ago that Padre y Madre mellowed out after we lost the last election. They’ve told me, the best thing you can do is to take a stand and prove that you’re better than the other side—that you can be strong without resorting to their wicked tactics…also, that’s what Padre said to Madre when Haiti beat Nicaragua in the last Quidditch match and blatantly cheated!” She yelled the last two words.

Both of her friends laughed.

Pakal smiled and wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders again. “You know,” he said, “I think it’s going to be alright this year.”

Grozny, Chechnya, Russian Federation

13 August 1995

Donduk Kuvezin took his seat in the back of the pub in one of the quieter parts of the city, sitting with his back to the wall and making sure he was able to look along the long axis of the building. Things had been a lot quieter in this city ever since the muggle Russian army captured it in February, but things didn’t always follow each other between the magical world and the muggle world, and everyone knew that the agents of Konstantin Jugashvili were still on the move, preparing for another separatist assault—maybe not for a year yet, but it would be coming.

Donduk was waiting for his regular contact to come in. He was late today, which usually meant news, usually bad, and the longer it took, the more worried he became that they would both be found out. This was a dangerous game, even what little he was trying to do. Everything was when Konstantin Jugashvili was involved.

He wasn’t there to kill Jugashvili. That would be a fool’s errand. The man may have been disgraced and exiled, but he was still powerful on the level of an Edward Grayson or a Lord Voldemort. Not only that, but he had mastered the Tuvans’ and the other Siberian tribes’ secrets of clairvoyant scrying, and he had studied enough in the Far East that he was expert at moving about unseen. No one he didn’t trust could get close enough to kill him.

No, Donduk’s mission was one of intelligence gathering alone. There wasn’t even an action plan in the works, but his elders back home in Tuva were very interested in keeping tabs on Jugashivili’s movements, and they offered great incentives to young witches and wizards who were willing to go to Chechnya for a year to try to monitor him.

He had only so much as seen the man once. Once the hero of the magical Red Army in Grindelwald’s war, he had changed since. He was a hard-faced, grey-bearded man weighed down by years of fighting, no longer a fresh-faced soldier. But anyone who mistook that jaded hardness for weariness and vulnerability would not live to regret it. He was strong, and he was a man who was in it for the long haul.

Donduk’s contact was a man much like himself. He knew him only by the nom de guerre Yakov the Red, but he knew he was a wizard of the Udmurt Republic in the Western Urals—not actually part of Siberia, but his people had been similarly exploited by Jugashvili, their unique traditions stolen and used against them. He had bright red hair, as did many in Udmurtia, but he passed himself off convincingly as a man from Saint Petersburg. Unlike Donduk, he had been deep in this game for years. Donduk didn’t even have a code name, to say nothing of trying to pass for an ethnicity that was above suspicion to Jugashvili’s people. Yakov the Red was quite possibly taking a greater risk than usual by working with him, so he was having to earn his keep to make it worth the trouble.

He flicked his eyes up from the book he was half-reading each time the door opened. Eventually, his vigilance paid off when Yakov the Red walked into the pub. His cover wasn’t impenetrable, but it was good. The red-headed man was dressed just the same as any other Russian wizard from the more cosmopolitan parts of the country, with just enough eccentricities so that he didn’t come across as some kind of golem—a hat cocked at an odd angle as if trying to look a little bit distinctive, a pair of green shoes that didn’t quite match his robes, as if he were a bit cheap or lazy—little things like that. He looked so ordinary that if Donduk hadn’t known him by his face, he never would have noticed how ordinary he looked.

Yakov bought a beer, then scanned the pub and pretended to see the man with the book for the first time. He walked up to the table casually, facing cater-cornered to him, and said, “Tolstoy, eh? You seem more like a Dostoevsky man, by the look of you.”

“Do I still count as one if I get tired of rereading him after a while?” Donduk replied with the correct, if inane code phrase.

“I don’t know. It sounds like a compromise to me.” Yakov the Red sat down with a flourish that allowed him to look over the whole pub discreetly. Leaning close and inhaling the scent of his mediocre beer deeply, he said softly, “You said there was a man from Yakutsk coming soon. Where is he?”

“She, actually, and I’m pretty sure she got held up in Kazakhstan,” Donduk replied, putting his book down. “I can scry for her tonight if you want.”

“Fine. Just as long as a certain dark wizard doesn’t catch on,” Yakov warned.

“No system is perfect; you know that. But the odds against a third party tapping into a scrying trance are astronomical if they aren’t looking for it. And if he is, we’re dead anyway.”

“Fair enough. Do it. No astral messages, though. We made that mistake in ‘92.”

Normally, Donduk demurred to the more experienced spy, but in this case, the insinuation set his teeth on edge. “We made that mistake in ‘48, Mr. Yakov. The elders did not send a novice to help you.”

“Can’t be too careful when the Dark Lord of Leningrad is involved,” Yakov reminded him. Indeed, the spies never so much as called Jugashvili by his name aloud. It was probably safe, but you never knew if he had something like a short range Taboo Field around him produced by his diverse Shamanic learning that would catch you if he happened to walk by a block away. “Any news on your tails?” he asked.

Donduk hoped he meant the people he was tailing and not the people tailing him, whom he was pretty sure he had thrown off his scent. This was the work he had to do to make it worth confiding with Yakov. It was a dangerous game, and a very cerebral one—a game played in scrying as much as in more traditional spying—but he was still alive, which meant he had played it well so far. “No changes,” he reported. “Or not many. He is still recruiting, the same as before. Still training people and moving goods—magical and muggle. He’s moving more muggle weapons. There’s a rumour that he’s training wizards to use muggle weapons, but I’m still trying to confirm it.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” Yakov said. “They’re fast, deadly, and they can be charmed silent, or near enough.”

“But why? I can jam a whole room full of them with one spell.”

“Don’t get cocky, kid. You’ve got to see them first. If a man with a gun gets the drop on you, you won’t have time to shield.”

“I suppose not,” Donduk admitted. “That would explain one thing, though.”

Yakov’s eyebrows shot up, very interested: “What’s that?”

“He isn’t being as aggressive as he was last year. I told you that much already. I think after the muggles lost the city, he’s being more careful, making sure everything’s in position before striking back.”

“Including the muggle army?” Yakov reasoned. “That’s bad news if he’s got his hooks into them. And odd, considering what I’ve heard.”

“Oh?” Donduk said with interest. “And what have you heard?”

“I heard that he has received some foreign visitors.”

“Foreign? How foreign are we talking about?”

“Pretty foreign. British.”

“British?” That was news indeed. Someone like Jugashvili wouldn’t normally receive visitors from out of the country—or out of the former Soviet Union, to be more precise. And British? The British Ministry had always been firmly against him. So that could only mean—He gasped: “They’re from Volde—”

“Don’t say it!” Yakov hissed. “I don’t know what spies Lord V. has around here, but if they’re afraid to say his name in Britain, there’s probably a reason.”

“Sorry,” Donduk said, although from what he knew, scrying was so little practised in the West that there was very little chance of these envoys using anything like it. “Who are they?”

“Don’t know much yet. I saw two big, burly men. The first one had black hair, a moustache, and a thing for knives. His name was Macnair or something close to that. And his buddy’s even bigger, but blond—name of Rowle. I haven’t heard much more, but I did get a message from home saying they only came here after swinging through the Ural Mountains.”

Donduk knew the geography of magical Russia well enough, and there was only one thing of interest there. “The last giant community in Europe,” he said.

“Da. They were allies the last time Lord V. was making trouble. It’s only natural he’d seek them out again. But the Dark Lord of Leningrad is another story.”

“If I remember my history right, the last time Lord V. was powerful, the Dark Lord of Leningrad was still in power and didn’t want anything to do with the West.”

“But…?” Yakov asked.

It was a test, of course, Donduk realised—a test to make sure he was smart enough to keep up this job. And why not? The stakes had just gone up, hadn’t they? Of course, this particular question was an easy one: “But he’s got more practical since he’s been out of power. He’ll take any help for the Chechens he can get, no matter where it’s from.”

“Very good. Now, next question: what does he have that would make it worth Lord V.’s while?”

Another easy one: “Magical knowledge. A powerful scryer in the West, where they no practically nothing of it? That could upset all of Western Europe…But he is busy here. He’s devoting his resources and personal involvement to taking back Chechnya. Scrying gets a lot harder over those distances. Does Lord V. think he can get him to go to Britain and help him?”

Yakov gave him a look that said, You really ought to be able to figure this out on your own, kid.

“Nyet. He’s consulting the oracle.”

“Da.”

“Of course. He is powerful, but Lord V. doesn’t need power. He needs information. Our Dark Lord might make a few trips to Britain, but the important thing is that Lord V.’s people can come here to consult him.”

“Now you see it,” Yakov confirmed. “And that’s one more line of aid that our Dark Lord has at his disposal, too.”

“Okay, so that’s the new game, then. Now, what do we do?”

“Same thing we’ve been doing: monitor, dig up all the dirty details, and document everything so we can send it to the ICW if he steps over what passes for their line.” He spat at the ICW’s sluggish responses. “Only now, we’ve got some extra players to keep an eye on—players with possible connections to the giants.”

Donduk suppressed a shudder. He’d heard stories about giants. Almost everyone in the wizarding world had. They had lost ninety percent of their already-struggling population in the last century since the muggles had finished exploring the frontiers of the world, but a wild giant was still feared in the wilder places like Siberia. “Giants,” he muttered. “That’s either very good or very bad.”

Yakov raised an eyebrow: “How so?”

“Bad because a bull giant is a match for the average dragon, and that’s the last thing we need here or in Britain. Good because going across international borders will get the ICW’s attention.”

Yakov smirked cynically. “Don’t count on that one,” he said. “Lord V. already has that Dark Lady from the Americas working for him, and the ICW’s only sent a small team to arrest her, and that’s it. Hell, it took months for them to act on Rwanda, and they were slaughtering muggles by the hundreds of thousands there. And besides, if we’re right about Lord V.”s plans, the ICW will probably intervene in Britain rather than bother with us here. We’re on our own, the same as we have been.”

“Fair enough. What’s our game plan, then?”

“We split up and watch the Brits along with his men. You find your Yakut contact and bring her up to speed on the situation—in person, naturally. We’ll have plenty for her to do when she gets here.”

The Yakut spy, Uruydaana Ukoeva, arrived two days later, fortunately not having had any catastrophic problems in Kazakhstan. Her assistance was definitely welcome, since the small group in Chechnya now had their work cut out for them. The Death Eaters, Macnair and Rowle, were watched carefully. Though they were big and intimidating (traits that were probably selected for their dealings with the giants), they were lying low here, and they were certainly going to great pains to ingratiate themselves with Jugashvili. Donduk was surprised that they could afford to make such big promises. Some of them would have to be deferred until Voldemort won his own war, but they were very intent on forging an alliance.

Of course, all of their observations had been sent up the chain to the Siberian Coalition, a somewhat misnamed alliance of non-ethnic Russians within Magical Russia that had long been a voice against the firm hand of the Russian Ministry. Their new observations would help build their case to the ICW. Not that their case was likely to get very far, but they wanted to have everything documented for the inevitable “we told you so.”

At first, the Death Eaters acted brazenly, apparently unaware that they were being spied upon. But Jugashvili must have informed them of the infiltration in Grozny because they soon became more circumspect. Still, they weren’t that hard to track. They had been accustomed to acting secretly during their previous war, but not quite in this way. They hid behind masks, but theirs was a guerrilla action, almost an open rebellion, not this true cloak and dagger stuff. Also, they were out of practice. As much as they were happy to be torturing muggles again, they’d grown soft from thirteen years of their quiet lives, and they were still learning to become the terrorists they once were again.

At least, that was the impression that Donduk got.

“Seems to me that Lord V. runs them pretty hard,” Uruydaana said at their next meeting. “He’s certainly whipping them back into shape fast, what with all the duelling practice they’re doing.” It was true. Macnair and Rowle spent an inordinate amount of time practising dark curses.

“Our intel says he was pretty mad at all his followers who denounced him after he apparently died,” Donduk told her.

“Which is interesting in itself,” said Yakov the Red. “He was dead. All the physical evidence was clear. He couldn’t have possibly survived that house exploding even if that Potter boy did. And yet, half of Britain was afraid he’d come back. He talked like they should have known he’d come back. So what did he know that his followers didn’t?”

“Hard to say,” Uruydaana answered. “As paranoid and megalomaniacal as Lord V. sounds, he might not have told anyone exactly what he did. He might have just asserted that he was immortal and expected everyone to believe him. The really surprising part is that he turned out to be right.”

“That’s bad for us,” Donduk said. “If he can come back from the dead himself, what’s to stop him from doing it for his followers, too—or his allies for that matter. I have no wish to face an enemy we can’t kill.”

“War always comes with risk,” Yakov said. “And even if the fight is hopeless, the true believer always goes down fighting.”

“If there’s no other choice, yes,” he shot back testily. “But I’d much rather win the fight. And if Lord V. has defied the First Law of Magic and come back from the dead—or even what must have been a near-fatal and crushing defeat—that’s still bad for everyone who isn’t on the side of tyrants, especially if he can replicate the feat.”

“If he can,” Uruydaana clarified.

“If he wants to,” Yakov added. “A man like Lord V. won’t throw out immortality like candy even if he could—fewer people who can challenge his reign that way. Now, I refuse to believe that he has broken the First Law of Magic. He must have some power in reserve somewhere to do this. Therefore, if Lord V. becomes a threat to us, the thing to do is help his enemies find that power and destroy it.”

“But how do we talk to his enemies without being noticed?” Uruydaana asked. “They’re all the way in Britain.”

A sly smile crossed Donduk’s face: “I think I have a way,” he said, pausing for drama. “Fan Tong.”

“Fan Tong?” the others said reverently. Fan Tong was considered the greatest Seer alive today, and very well studied in other branches of magic. Though very old, in her prime, she was considered the equal of Jugashvili himself.

“In my latest dispatch from home, they said there is a rumour—but a well-supported rumour—that Fan Tong is involving herself in Britain. There are roundabout channels—nothing perfectly secure, but safe enough—by which I believe I can get a message to her.”

“We would still need a useful message to send to them,” Yakov said.

“So?” Uruydaana said. “We keep doing what we’ve been doing, except now we have an actual objective. Tail the Death Eaters, and see if any talk of immortality comes up.”

Yakov considered this and shrugged: “Fair enough.”

Immortality, however, didn’t seem to be on the minds of the Death Eaters, and Jugashvili, so far as they could ascertain, never asked how Voldemort had returned from the dead. That in itself was interesting. Either he already knew or guessed how Voldemort did it, which was very possible, or he didn’t care. Maybe he had contingencies of his own, or maybe he took the lesson of history to heart that most dark lords died violently rather than of old age and was focused on that danger. Or maybe he had even foreseen how long he would live and wasn’t interested in doing anything about it until the time came closer, even though that was a dangerous way to live.

No, the more interesting chatter was the rumour that Jugashvili was laying plans to go to take a trip to Britain in person. Apparently, his scrying talents were needed more urgently than they had thought. His point of travel would be an excellent place to try to catch him if he didn’t see them coming, so the spies watched carefully to try to find out when and where he was making the move. That was when they ran into trouble.

Macnair and Rowle, the Death Eaters, were headed towards what seemed to be an abandoned muggle warehouse. Uruydaana was tailing them, cautiously, under an invisibility cloak, wary of any tricks. That wariness proved justified, when she reached the warehouse and saw no welcoming committee. Instead, Macnair spun around and shouted, “Homenum Revelio!”

“Stupefy!” she shouted back, not waiting to be revealed. Before she could blink, dark curses were flying at her at top speed. She fought back as she was trained, dodging and weaving and trying to find an opening for her own spells, but it was two on one, and the Death Eaters had no compunction about using lethal spells. She found herself spending most of her time shielding, and that was no way to win a fight.

Macnair tried to pin her against a wall and distract her with a hail of curses while Rowle flanked her. She tried to keep up her defence, but it was failing.

“Avada—!” the blond giant started. She tried to duck, but she didn’t have room to move.

But there was a flash of red light, and Rowle crumpled under a non-verbal Stunner from behind. He fell forward, revealing Donduk Kuvezin standing at the entrance of the warehouse with his wand out.

“Diffindo!” Macnair roared, slashing his wand back at him without hesitating.

“Protego!”

The fight was on again. Macnair was doing an admirable job duelling two opponents at once, holding them off by using darker curses than they were willing to use. The fight went on for several minutes. Macnair was on the defensive, but they couldn’t quite bring him down, until Uruydaana found an opening and got a spell through. A moment later, both Macnair and Rowle were both unconscious at their feet. The two spies stood over them, panting, covering them with their wands.

“Thanks,” Uruydaana said.

“No problem,” Donduk replied.

“Good timing.”

“Looks like it…So…What should we do with them?”

“Light footprint, remember?” Uruydaana replied. “There’s no time to interrogate them, and there are ways to detect Veritaserum. We need them alive and unsuspecting to get information from them…Obliviate!”

Shangri-La, Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, China

14 August 1995

An ancient witch in traditional Chinese robes, richly coloured and patterned with gold thread, sat dozing in a lounge chair overlooking the vale of Shangri-La. She had retired here years ago for a quieter life, but it was not to be. The trouble of the world had followed her here. She spent much of her days dozing in this way, but day or night, she never slept well anymore.

Fan Tong, the last Grand Sorceress of the Qing, breathed with a soft rasping sound as she slept, mouth open—the only outward indication that she was still alive. Her hair was long, but very thin. Her skin looked like cracked leather. It was hard to believe that she had once sent the Japanese wizards running in terror before her. In fact, at her age, it was hard to guess whether she could still cast magic at all.

But Fan Tong was no stranger to the touch of magic, even now. Even as she slept, the currents of time were swirling around her, and when they converged, she snapped awake and sat upright, and in a harsh voice, she gasped, “The tigers are gathering in the beehive!”

A worried young man rushed to her side as she slipped out of her trance, and she reached to him with trembling hands for support. A jewelled necklace that she wore at all times spoke in a clear voice, “The tigers are gathering in the beehive.” No true Seer could remember her prophecies, but there were ways around that, and the woman who was once the most celebrated Seer in all of Asia learnt that long ago.

A song pierced the air, heartbreakingly beautiful and infinitely soothing, sung by a golden phoenix, which spread her wings over the old woman. As the phoenix sang, she relaxed, her hands steadied, and her breathing slowed. She settled back into her lounge chair, though she was now wide awake.

“Are you alright, Grandmother?” the young man said—not her grandson, but her great-great-grandson—more than a century her junior and already a strong young man. One or more of Fan Tong’s descendants was always nearby as a caregiver, and Chang Jie was there frequently of late.

“Is that you, Jie Jie?” Fan Tong said in a rickety voice.

“Yes, Grandmother,” Chang Jie said. “That sounded like a difficult vision. ‘The tigers are gathering in the beehive.’ What does that mean?”

“The tigers are gathering in the beehive…” She trailed off foggily and got a vacant look on her face. Jie thought she might have forgotten what they were talking about, but she spoke up again: “I know of only one place that can be called ‘the beehive’: Dumbledore’s country.”

“Dumbledore. Britain,” Jie whispered. “My cousin, Cho, in Britain told me about the return of Lord Voldemort in her letters. Do you remember, Grandmother?”

“Lord Voldemort?” Her gaze turned sharper again. “Yes, the vicious serpent, eight-headed, who defies the Veil of Shadow—” She stopped short and shivered. It wasn’t uncommon for her to slip into prophetic language in normal speech anymore. It would have helped if her prophecies were more useful, though.

“It must be Dumbledore’s country,” Jie reasoned. “That is what made the prophecy so momentous. It’s so far away. But who are the tigers?”

“The tigers?”

“You said the tigers were gathering. Who are they?”

“Tigers…It is strange. I do not understand.”

Jie knelt at her side and held her hand. “Can you See anything, Grandmother?”

“Perhaps…” Fan Tong closed her eyes and concentrated. A Seer could not control his or her true prophecies, but one skilled in divination could dip into the magic and pull out useful information about them—in theory, anyway. Age had worn her gift down, and her prophecies and predictions had grown both more venial and more obfuscated over the years, even as they ironically increased in frequency. Prophecies were often somewhat vague, but most didn’t rely on outright symbolism, which made the interpretation of hers that much harder. Her Sight came in vague flashes and images anymore, but she gathered her fading mental powers and tried her best to interpret them. “I See…” she said, and flinched at the Sight. “Tigers…” She couldn’t See the animals clearly—just fur and eyes and flashing claws. “A pack of tigers.”

“Tigers don’t hunt in packs,” Jie said.

“Unnatural…drawn together…” she said, still concentrating. “No, not tigers! Not tigers…”

“Lions, maybe?”

“No. Not lions…Jaguar…Tiger…Leopard…Lynx.” She gasped and opened her eyes, snapping out of her Vision.

“Jaguar, tiger, leopard, lynx,” he repeated. “A jaguar and a leopard? Are you sure?”

“Yes, I could tell the difference.”

“So instead of tigers, then, four different cats from different parts of the world, together. Why?”

“I do not know. It is mysterious.”

“Hmm, typically, animals stand in for people—or sometimes places. The four cats represent four different places. The jaguar—that’s the Americas; the tiger—Asia; the leopard—Africa; and the lynx—Europe. All are solitary species, too, and yet all gathering in Britain—”

“Be cautious, Jie Jie,” the old woman reminded him. “You must beware of the danger of over-interpreting.” The greatest danger for a Seer or any practitioner of divination, even more so than ignoring a prophecy, was to read too much into one.

“My apologies, Grandmother,” he said. “But it does seem to suggest great powers gathering in Britain—and not good ones.”

The golden phoenix trilled a note of concern, worried over the words she was hearing.

“Peace, Xihe,” Tong said. “Yes, it feel as if there is great evil moving in the world. Perhaps stronger techniques—The monks shall partake of the fruit of the kiwi tree!”

“The monks shall partake of the fruit of the kiwi tree,” her necklace repeated. She stopped and took a deep breath. That one, like most of her prophecies, didn’t wrack her body, not being important or momentous enough, but she still went stiff, and it was a strain on her voice. This happened practically every day, now—prophesying what was for dinner and the like. It drove the Chinese Bureau of Mysteries mad. Fan Tong produced more prophecies than all the other Seers in China put together, and most of them were completely worthless.

“Oh, I grow too old for this, Jie Jie,” she said. “I can’t even remember how many wars I’ve fought.”

“Grandmother, I did not mean—No one is asking you to fight,” Jie said with alarm.

“No, it is no use denying it. My dreams have troubled me of late.”

“Your—your dreams? You have not said anything about dreams.”

“I did not want to worry you, but I see I cannot ignore them. I foresee great trouble coming upon the world—great danger. I foresee death and destruction on a scale not seen since Grindelwald’s War, and Britain is at the centre.”

Chang Jie gasped, knowing how dire it was for his ancestor to say that. Fan Tong was already old when Grindelwald’s war broke out, but she had still fought like any Chinese patriot, and it was then, at the end of the war, that she scored her life’s greatest victory: her fifth and final duel with the great Japanese wizard, Abe no Yorimitsu. But finally killing the man who had defeated her four times had nearly ended her own life, and it was only with Xihe’s help that she made it out alive. She was not fit to fight again.

“You…you think that this prophecy is about a coming world war?” he whispered.

“War is coming, child. That much I know. It is there for all to see if you look closely. The tea leaves say it. The stars say it. The bones say it. I cannot but listen. I do not know how far it will spread, but it is coming…Still, I do not understand this vision. The connection of the cats is murky.”

“But to involve yourself in this…” Jie said, not really listening.

“The visions have come to me. I am already involved,” she interrupted.

“That does not mean that you must act, Grandmother. Perhaps there is no help that we can give.”

“The Visions would not come to me if I and mine could do nothing about them. You know this, Chang Jie. It is the greatest of the laws of prophecy.”

“My apologies, Grandmother.” It was a foolish suggestion, he realised. Prophecies were only useful if they came to those with the power to influence them. Any “Seer” who gave colourful descriptions of far-off lands or the distant future was a self-declared charlatan. Fan looked like her mind was made up about it, so he shifted back to reasoning things out. “It would seem then,” he said slowly, “that this prophecy ought to be connected with this war you have foreseen, if we could trust the normal rules of prophecies.”

“And yet, sadly, I cannot trust the normal rules anymore,” Fan Tong said. “My powers are not so great as they once were. No, I cannot interpret it. Not for certain. Perhaps Lo-Tsen will be able to help us.”

Lo-Tsen was not a young woman, but eighty-five was barely an age to retire for witches, and she was a spring chicken compared with Fan Tong. She had been the de facto leader of Shangri-La for many years, since the High Lama of the wizarding Buddhist community exercised no real temporal power. She had been a very beautiful woman in her youth and still looked very good, even by magical standards, but she had an air of command now that she had not had as a girl, and she was closely involved with the well-being of Fan Tong, the valley’s most famous resident. Naturally, she wanted to be informed of any major prophecies the ancient witch made.

“So the prophecy?” she asked. “It said, “The tigers are gathering in the beehive’?”

“Yes, Lo-Tsen,” Fan Tong told her. “I’ve kept the recording.”

“And you tried to scry for its meaning?”

“I did. I saw four cats, but only one was a tiger. The others were…”

“A jaguar, a leopard, and a lynx,” Chang Jie reminded her.

“Yes, that was it. I do not trust myself to interpret the prophecy, but I believe it has to do with the dark wizard in Britain. Perhaps if you know more about the situation…”

Lo-Tsen nodded: “I believe I can help. I know a little of the conflict in Britain. Lord Voldemort was not the only dark wizard sighted there. There was another, known as the Dark Lady of Veracruz. A Mexican. And her chosen name is the Jaguar Priestess.”

“The Jaguar,” Jie gasped softly. “If all of the cats represent dark wizards…”

“The lynx is found in Europe,” Fan Tong reasoned. “It could refer to Voldemort himself.”

“And it would stand to reason that the other two are an African and an Asian wizard of comparable power,” Lo-Tsen finished. “Xu Fu, four dark lords of that calibre in the same place? You are right; it could lead to a world war.”

“I see darkness in my dreams, Lo-Tsen,” the ancient witch said. “I see horrors such as I have never…the wild beasts and the piercing eye and the storm…storm…storm…the winds of ice lie at the edge of the roof of the hallows!”

“The winds of ice lie at the edge of the roof of the hallows,” the amulet repeated as Xihe crooned softly.

All three of them stared in surprise. She had not uttered that prophecy in Chinese.

“That was English,” Jie whispered.

“Yes,” Fan Tong said. “I should have seen it before. That was not the first time that has happened.”

“It wasn’t?”

“No. You see now why I fear I must go. Britain is coming to me. It will not leave me alone.”

“Fan Tong, if the signs say you must go to Britain we will give you all the help we can,” Lo-Tsen said.

“You are most kind, Lo-Tsen. I fear I may need it.”

“But what did the prophecy mean?” Jie said. “Edge of the roof of the Hallows? I don’t understand. Something about the Deathly Hallows of Western lore?”

“Perhaps. Let me think…” said Lo-Tsen. She was one of the best English speakers in the valley, but it still took her a couple minutes to catch the wordplay. “Eaves,” she concluded. “The edges of a roof are the eaves in English—the same sound as the word for ‘eve’. All Hallows’ Eve. She’s predicted a Halloween ice storm.”

“Oh,” Jie said, disappointed. “But what do we do about Britain?”

“There is little we can do if we do not know more about what’s happening,” Lo-Tsen said.

“We come back to the prophecy, then,” Fan Tong replied. “I believe action is needed. My dreams tell me that Britain will need our help.”

Lo-Tsen frowned. “I fear what will happen if you go immediately without a clear picture,” she said. “Unless we can gain more information through official channels, or if you can scry more reliable information…”

“Perhaps if you focus on the tiger,” Jie said. “If you scry for something closer to home, it may be clearer.”

Lo-Tsen brightened: “That may well work. If the tiger has to do with Asia, it may be easier.”

“The tiger…” Fan Tong said. That was the first animal she had focused on, but now, with a better idea of what she was looking for, she might be able to See more. She muttered under her breath and tried to focus again: “The tiger…where is the tiger…?”

She Saw disjointed flashes once more—a landscape, green and mountainous and isolated—ancient, blocky castles that she could only vaguely place in style—the tiger, stalking its prey. It turned and looked her in the eye—

“AHH!” She reeled back with a loud scream and froze with her mouth lolling open. For a moment, the others feared that her heart had given out, but then, she gasped for breath and began babbling incoherently.

“What is it? What happened, Grandmother?” Jie cried frantically.

The ancient witch kept shouting. Even Xihe’s song couldn’t calm her. “On uvidel menya! On uvidel menya!”

“What is she saying? What language is that?”

Lo-Tsen had turned pale. “It’s Russian,” she said. “She’s saying…she’s saying, “He saw me!’”

Jie Chang’s stared at both of them in horror. He had never heard of anyone detecting a scrying spell on them, let alone looking back along it. “Grandmother! Can you hear me? What do we do?”

Lo-Tsen collected herself and was all business at once: “Did you see who he was? Did he see where you were?”

“Don’t…don’t know…” Fan Tong stammered. “No…no reason to attack the vale. The action is not here.”

“I hope not, but we can’t afford an invasion, but did you see who it was?”

“Too long! Too long!” she moaned.

“She doesn’t remember,” said Jie. “Do you know any powerful wizards in Asia, Lo-Tsen? Someone it could have been?”

“C-castles,” Fan Tong whispered.

“Grandmother?”

“Saw…castles. Western-style. Mountains—green mountains. The man was…white—Westerner.”

“Green mountains, Western-style castles, the man was a Westerner?” Lo-Tsen reasoned. “A Russian. You were speaking Russian. And the mountains…it would have to be the Caucasus, wouldn’t it? Then the man would be—oh, dear.”

“What?” Jie said.

“Konstantin Jugashvili. I should have known. He’s an expert on Siberian shamanic magics—it would have been a Siberian tiger she saw. I could imagine him looking back into a vision.”

“How bad is it?”

“Not as bad as it could be. Jugashvili’s been expending most of his efforts in the Caucasus. Aiding Voldemort in Britain would strain his resources even further. He won’t want to try for a move here.”

“But he knows now that I’m on to him,” Fan Tong said. “I must act quickly.”

“What will you do, Grandmother?” asked Jie worriedly.

“I will go to Britain,” she said firmly.

“Jugashvili will expect you,” warned Lo-Tsen.

“He already expects me.”

“You cannot fight him.”

“I cannot fight him with force. But if he is aiding the Dark, the Light will need a Seer. I have not heard of momentous prophecies from Britain since the death of Cassandra Trelawney. I will serve.”

Chang Jie made up his mind: “Then I will go with you.”

Fan Tong turned to face him with surprise. “You will, Jie Jie?”

“My name is Chang Jie, Grandmother,” he said as respectfully as he could. “I am a son of the House of Chang and a grandson of the House of Fan. I cannot allow my honoured ancestor to face this evil alone. I will aid you. And I will contact my cousins in Britain. I am sure they will help as well.”

“Wait a minute,” Lo-Tsen interrupted. “We still can’t just dive into this. Shangri-La can’t afford a military conflict and a legal one at the same time, especially if Jugashvili is on to us. You know what the ICW will do to us if we insert ourselves into a foreign conflict without their approval.”

Fan Tong leaned back and steepled her fingers together. “You are right, Lo-Tsen,” she admitted. “This isn’t like it was last time…Well, there is only one thing we can do. Didn’t you say that the ICW was sending someone to Britain?”

“Yes, a police mission to apprehend the Jaguar Priestess. Just a moment…” She opened a drawer in her desk and filed through some papers. “Here, it is.” She showed them a document written in French with the Chinese translation inserted between the lines.

“That is it. We must petition the ICW to join their police mission.”

“Do you think they’ll agree?”

“I think they will. I hope that my visions will be enough to convince them.”

“I will back you if you try, Madam Fan, but it’s a very limited mandate. They’re not to get involved in a civil conflict.”

“If my visions are right, they will not be able to avoid it,” Fan Tong retorted. “Please contact the ICW at once.”

“As you wish, ma’am.”

ICW Headquarters, Meiringen, Switzerland

21 August 1995

In a small, but strong and magically-hidden keep overlooking the Reichenbach Falls, the Headquarters of the International Confederation of Wizards was a bustle of activity, even when it wasn’t in session. When the delegates weren’t meeting, the bureaucrats ruled the roost, taking care of day-to-day activities. Applications for small things like the transfer of dangerous creatures across national borders as had been done for the Tetrawizard Tournament in Britain were approved with little more than a rubber stamp. Multinational trade agreements required a little more care. The constant petitions to allow importation of flying carpets into Western Europe were dutifully passed along with the full knowledge that the broomstick interests would never allow them to pass in their home countries, but others, like agreements on the protection of endangered magical creatures, had far better prospects.

At higher levels, reports were written and compiled regularly on more complex issues, particularly those that would come up at the annual meetings. Everything from yet another vote on whether to divide the Czechoslovakian Ministry of Magic to a plan for fighting the Ebola outbreak in Zaire started by Kinani Ngeze’s Nundu was carefully researched and sent off to the various delegates around the world for consideration.

It was to one of these bureaucrats, a local named Aegidus Tell, that two documents arrived from Shangri-La, both signed by Lo-Tsen, the Permanent Secretary to the High Lama, and countersigned by the famed Seer, Fan Tong, herself. Surprised at the mailings, he read them over carefully. The first one was confusing: an application for Fan Tong to join the police mission in Britain to apprehend the rogue dark lady, La Pantera.

Aegidus Tell was sure he was misremembering his history. Fan Tong had to be ancient by now. He didn’t even know she was still alive. He remembered reading a history of Grindelwald’s War that depicted the epic duels of Fan Tong and Abe no Yorimitsu in the Pacific Theatre—both grey-haired and old, relics of an earlier time, even then. Surely, there must be some mistake. But a quick consultation of a history book confirmed there wasn’t: Fan Tong, born 1860. He couldn’t believe she was still practising as a Seer, much less was in a condition to join an international law enforcement expedition.

He looked at the second memo, hoping to find more clues as to what was going on. What he found was far more alarming. It was an oracle—not an oracle as in a person, nor a true prophecy, but a prophetic message pieced together from half-understood prophecies, troubling, half-remembered dreams, and careful studies with divination—a piece of magical detective work as weighty as any prophecy, even with Fan Tong’s failing powers. The message was clear: a war was coming. And not just any war—a war in Western Europe—something rare in this day and age. And if a Seer all the way in China was Seeing it, it would be a war such as had not been seen since Grindelwald’s time.

Aegidus was sceptical of divination himself, but the current Supreme Mugwump had instituted strict rules regarding prophecies. All important prophecies from established Seers—and even from unestablished Seers if they could be substantiated—were to be passed along for him for review personally—no exceptions. That the kind of thing happened a few times a year. Doubtless, there were other important prophecies as well, but they were witnessed by people who either handled them internally in their homelands, didn’t think them important, or otherwise didn’t want to pass them up to the ICW level.

This was easily the most important oracle that had ever crossed Aegidus’s desk. What was more, he was well aware of Voldemort’s return and how close Britain’s civil war had come to spilling beyond its borders the last time he was strong. The spark was there for war to begin. This oracle looked all too believable. He sent it along to Albus Dumbledore with a priority stamp and then poured himself a stiff drink.

He thought about the message some more. This would require serious consideration. First question: supposing there was at least a war in Britain—and it didn’t take a Seer to see that coming—what were the odds that it would hit the Continent? Voldemort had recruited on the Continent last time, but he had not risked acting openly. But this time, he was already known to have foreign allies, and the ICW was taking action, albeit small so far. Bump those odds up to “definitely worrying.”

Second question: how much danger were they in here in Switzerland? Aegidus had his own family to think of. Grindelwald hadn’t tried attacking Switzerland, nor had the muggle Axis Powers. The land was too well protected by both her location and her extensive preparation to be worth it. True, Voldermort was widely considered to be much less sane than Grindelwald, but if he tried it, he would still be fighting (quite literally) an uphill battle.

Third question: how good were those national defences today, fifty years after the last major war in Europe? Magical Switzerland was unprepared for a war—by Swiss standards, anyway. Switzerland had begun preparing its defences against Grindelwald in earnest in 1935, and the muggle government had been anticipating the Great War as early as the 1880s. They might little time to improve upon them now if Voldemort was as mad as the rumours said.

On the other hand, the Cold War had done wonders for the legendary Swiss preparedness on the muggle side. Literally every person in Switzerland, magical and muggle, was within a few minutes of a nuclear fallout shelter.

It was that legendary Swiss preparedness that led him to act. The Swiss Ministry was no doubt watching Voldemort’s movements very carefully already, and they would definitely want to know about an oracle like this. So would the Liechtensteiner Minister, for that matter. Like the other so-called “European microstates,” Liechtenstein had been a sanctuary for wizards during the Inquisition, so that even today, it had as many wizards as Albania, which was a hundred times its size. (Predictably, it was a nightmare to enforce the Statute of Secrecy there.) But because of its geographic limitations, Liechtenstein partnered with Switzerland for national defence, so they would definitely have an interest.

And one final question: how would Dumbledore react to him telling his Ministry? Well, Dumbledore was being pretty open about the new war starting in Britain. Aegidus was technically going behind his back before the oracle was fully understood, but he didn’t think the Supreme Mugwump would much mind if more wizards on the side of the light were prepared for this.

That settled it. Aegidus grabbed some more parchment and started writing out two more letters.

Albus Dumbledore, Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, among other things, returned to Hogwarts after checking on the Order at the McKinnon House to find a stack of paperwork on his desk. Such was the plight of a powerful wizard, wartime or no. This time of year, most of his paperwork was from his Chief Warlock position, with some of it relating to beginning the new school year. However, he was surprised to find an ICW memo on top of the stack today. And when he saw what it was, he dropped everything else and paid close attention to it. A prophecy—no, not a prophecy—an oracle. That was even better. They usually had a few more useful specifics than prophecies.

Alas, the news was not good. He’d thought he’d already seen the worst, but apparently, he was wrong. The oracle—all the way from China, no less—predicted a war. Not just a little war this time, but a war possibly affecting all of Europe.

Of course, the signs were there already. Voldemort had La Pantera as an ally, and Albus’s intelligence reported that he was already reaching out to the Continent for recruiting. The ICW was sending a police mission to deal with La Pantera, which was inviting trouble, even if their mandate was narrow. He’d hoped he would be able to keep it contained, but this latest prediction suggested that his effort would fail.

The central thesis of the oracle was a prophecy by a powerful, if ailing, Seer: “The tigers are gathering in the beehive.” The beehive: Britain. Albus himself was himself the only bee he knew of worth prophesying about. The tigers: presumably dark wizards. There were already two here, and the prophecy implied more were coming.

The dreams that inspired the oracle were, if it were possible, even more troubling. Disjointed images of an all-seeing eye from which none could hide, wild beasts wreaking havoc across the land, devastating storms laying waste to cities. Albus didn’t know how much of the dreams could be taken literally, but efforts to divine the future hinted at battles for the ages in the magical world, and a disturbing amount of conflict in the muggle world. Even taken as a whole, the oracle was vague, but its warning was clear enough. War was indeed coming: war large enough to spill into the muggle world and possibly even threaten the Statute of Secrecy itself. In other words, much worse than last time.

“Merlin’s beard, I’m getting too old for this,” he muttered, sinking further into his seat.

The war in East Africa had taken a lot out of him—more than he had let on. Another full-scale war had been thrust upon him—one he’d never expected to fight—and he’d needed plenty of time to recover afterwards. It was good that it had lasted only a few months. If he hadn’t had to take a mandatory three-week vacation while he was in quarantine, he would have had a much harder time of it.

But when looked at the signature on the oracle again, the old Seer put him to shame. He was ‘only’ one hundred and fourteen. Fan Tong was a hundred and thirty-five. Fate didn’t care how old he was, and neither did Voldemort. He’d have to grin and bear it once again.

So what could he do in response to this? As Supreme Mugwump, it was his duty to take decisive action for the good of Britain and the ICW as a whole. If all of Europe was to be swept up in this war, all of Europe would need to be prepared. The fact that an oracle came from such a reputable source as Fan Tong would probably convince most of them to pay attention. The details would have to be kept close to the vest, but he would tell the Ministers and ICW representatives of the various European countries right away. They would need to start their own preparations. Given the way the Swiss Ministry operated, he suspected that the Swiss and Liechtensteiner Ministers already knew, so he should probably start with them.

The complicated part would be convincing the ICW to take more aggressive action, even with the police mission. It had been like pulling teeth, as the muggles said, to get them to intervene in Rwanda, and this was a much bigger deal with multiple dark lords. Who was gathering? He wondered. Albus thought about every dark lord around the world he knew of and their magical specialities: The escaped Kinani Ngeze in Zaire, Caliph al-Ghilan in Iraq, the Mage Lord in Somalia, Jugashvili in Russia, Bochica Guatavita in Colombia, and whoever the Marshal of the Battle Mages of North Korea was this month seemed the most likely suspects. He’d be wise to draw up contingency plans for all of them if the oracle held true. Of course, it was the ones he didn’t know about who were most dangerous. Places of unrest like the Balkans, the Caucasus, and the Horn of Africa were breeding grounds for dark wizards, and the ICW would do well to monitor them more closely.

As for Britain, he’d already begun most of the work that needed done already. Edward Grayson and young Harry Potter had done an admirable job of convincing Fudge of the truth when Albus had failed. Fudge had allowed him to send emissaries to the werewolves and giants. Granted, it looked like the Death Eaters had got to the giants first, but he had made some connections with some Siberian wizards who could prove very useful. Security was being raised at Hogwarts and elsewhere, and Voldemort himself had proved how futile it was keeping the dementors at Azkaban, albeit at a steep price.

And then, there was Harry.

This oracle certainly changed his perspective on him.

For the past fourteen years, Albus had been worried about Harry being thrust into the fight too early, and considering the boy had had to fight dark forces every year at Hogwarts so far, it was a valid concern. But now, he was more worried about this new war dragging on for year after year like the last one, with more nations than Britain suffering. And as for Harry, now he had to worry about keeping him alive long enough to join the fight after he graduated—maybe even after he completed Auror training. Not to mention the fact Harry was now prophesied to destroy only one of several dark lords to threaten Britain.

It all seemed mad. After Gellert’s war, both the magical and muggle governments of Europe had united in such a way that the prospect of another full-scale war in the West had seemed impossible for centuries to come. For all that his fellow British wizard feared to speak his name, Voldemort had been a mere civil war, hardly worthy of global attention.

But now, a Seer on the other side of the world was prophesying about it, and that was not a good sign. Fan Tong, all the way in China, thought that Voldemort was a problem—enough of a problem to come here herself…perhaps final problem for her. Given her age, there was every possibility she wouldn’t return home. Reading between the lines, he suspected she’d had a premonition about it, in fact. Her oracle gave vague allusions to her involvement, but nothing about her fate, not even possibilities. It wouldn’t be out of character for her if she was hiding that fact from her friends and family.

And with as old as he felt right now, Albus Dumbledore feared Voldemort would be the final problem for him, too.

Al-Sahil School of Magic, Mali, Songhai

On the Niger River, midway from Timbuktu to Bamako

1 September 1995

A sandstorm swept towards Al-Sahil from the north. It was one of those sandstorms that always seemed to come on the same schedule, springing up from nowhere in a matter of minutes, swirling like a giant dust devil across the sand, and vanishing just as quickly, depositing a group of wizards in its wake—not that the muggles ever noticed.

This particular sandstorm was bringing a large group of local students—that is, mostly from within Mali, from the pickup point in Timbuktu. The swirl of sand surged forward until it stopped just outside the school gates and deposited its ‘passengers’ there, but more than just a mode of transport, it was a signpost visible from a great distance—a way for other groups of students to see how close they were to the school, and for some, to make sure they were on track.

The students at Al-Sahil came in different ways, some by train or boat or caravan. The more bookish students made a game out of spotting as many countries’ students arriving as possible as they approached, and a good deal more were scanning the horizon for the particular mode of transport of their friends from some country or other.

These eclectic methods of travel reflected the school itself. Al-Sahil School of Magic was a sprawling patchwork of buildings that had been enlarged three times by the French colonial wizards since its origins in the early Islamic period: once in 1885, once in 1908, and again in 1919. Today, at more than twice the size of Hogwarts, Al-Sahil was one of the largest schools of magic in the world. Its students came from everywhere from Mauritania to Madagascar, and they all seemed to come in different ways. Students from the drier countries, like Songhai and Mauritania, travelled by sandstorm. Those from the West African coast took a train in a complicated series of connections put in between the various colonial powers in the late 1800s. The Zairean students came riding a caravan of magical elephants, bred for centuries for use by wizards who were unsatisfied with the way their muggle cousins handled the noble beasts. And no one was quite sure how the Malagasy contingent got there. They always just seemed to appear out of nowhere when you had your back turned. It was a little unsettling.

On the dry terrain, the riders of the elephant caravan from Zaire, Rwanda, and Burundi could see a long way. The sandstorm was visible as a golden column in the distance, and the train was a black line on the horizon. A tall, thin, seventh-year girl on the back of an elephant near the rear of the caravan shielded her eyes and gazed out of the column of dust, trying to gauge its distance and direction.

“Was that the sandstorm from Timbuktu, Jacqueline?” she asked in heavily-accented French, turning to glance at her two year-mates riding behind her.

“How should I know?” the shortest of the three girls said. “I can never tell out here.”

The girl in front sighed. “I think we’re going to be late. How is Kimpa doing?”

“Are we there yet?” came the sleepy reply from the girl in question.

“Almost, Kimpa. I can see the school from here. We need to pick up the pace, though.”

“Don’t worry, Rosalie,” Kimpa assured her. “The caravan leaders know what they’re doing. We’ll get there.”

Rosalie just looked on nervously from her perch on the elephant’s neck, keeping an uneasy grip on her guiding pole.

Kimpa Muamba, Rosalie Mukasonga, and Jacqueline Rufyikiri had been nearly inseparable since their first year at Al-Sahil, and their bond had grown even closer as they supported each other through the East African War, constantly waiting and worrying to hear word of their families whilst trying to keep up with their studies. Kimpa was normally the one who drove the elephant for the three of them ever since their fourth year, being by far the best at it, but she didn’t feel up to it this time. She had gone home from school last June only to be nearly die of the Ebola virus that was still ravaging Zaire. The outbreak that Kinani Ngeze had unleashed on Central Africa with his nundu had been held back for a time, and the teachers had thought it safe to send the students home, but then it broke through the quarantine measures in July and decimated the already-weakened magical community. Some of the girls’ friends had died. Some were still at home sick or in quarantine. And even those who had been cured of the virus, like Kimpa, still struggled with the aftermath.

Kimpa suffered lingering joint and muscle pain and fatigue; she walked stiffly, and she had slept for a good part of the journey, leaning against Jacqueline’s chest—not an easy feat on the back of an elephant. Such symptoms would normally be easily treatable for witches and wizards, but nothing was ever so simple when a nundu was involved. Kimpa was, at this point, trying to fully wake up so she wouldn’t be dead on her feet when they got to the school, and Jacqueline offered her a canteen of water, which she drank greedily.

“It’s going to be hard this year,” Jacqueline said bitterly, “so many people being gone. I thought we were out of the woods after the war.” She absently rubbed at the curling, rope-like scars on her arms.

“It’s always hard times in some country that comes to Al-Sahil,” Kimpa said. “Although it was very hard to leave my family this time. I almost didn’t come. Especially since I’ve already had the Red Death. Someone has to tend to the ill.” And bury the dead went unspoken.

“You’re not in much of a condition to do that, yourself,” Rosalie reminded her.

“I know. But I mostly came because Mother and Father kept telling me how important my education was.”

“That is true. That’s what my uncle always says. It’s why I came back last year.” This year, of course, it was because she’d managed to avoid the plague so far, and it was safer for her at school.

“I feel for you two,” Kimpa said. “Suffering disasters at home for two years in a row must be awful.”

“Mm hmm,” Rosalie murmured. It was true; there always seemed to be conflict somewhere the vast region that Al-Sahil served—and least in the muggle world, and wizards were never entirely immune to that. With Rosalie hailing from Burundi and Jacqueline from Rwanda, they had been hit especially hard by both the East African War and the plague. Rosalie had lost both of her parents when Ngeze’s nundu destroyed the Burundian Ministry, leaving her to live with her uncle, but that had been just the start of her and her friends’ trials. At the end of their fifth year, after Jacqueline and Rosalie had said goodbye to Kimpa at Kisangani, they had tried to continue home. The East African War was still raging at the time, and there had been much debate about keeping them at Al-Sahil. Indeed, they both were kept there a while past the end of term with Kimpa staying by their sides out of solidarity, but before long, Edward Grayson’s force had liberated Burundi, and Rosalie’s family wanted to be close to her. Jacqueline was never considered an at-risk target in the first place, so they both set off for home after that.

Unfortunately, things didn’t go as smoothly as they’d hoped, and they got waylaid when they stumbled into the forces fighting Albus Dumbledore’s secret advance in Eastern Zaire. In the space of an hour, their guide was killed, their elephant was lost, they were separated from the rest of their caravan, and they were left alone with no hope of making it all the way to Burundi. (There was a big stink this summer after the teachers made a mistake like that two years in a row.) With no other options, Jacqueline led Rosalie out of the frying pan and into the fire in hopes of finding sanctuary, bribing a couple of local smugglers to take them in a boat across Lake Kivu to make it to her older brother’s apartment in Gisenyi. It was debatable whether that was more or less dangerous than trying to fend for themselves in Zaire until the war ended: Jacqueline was Hutu, but Rosalie was Tutsi.

And Rosalie happened to look just like the not-entirely-accurate stereotype of a Tutsi that the militias were watching for—one of the few still alive in Gisenyi. Still, she had wept with gratitude to have a friend who was willing to put her life on the line for her and went willingly. It was easily the most dangerous thing either of them had ever done. They’d had to sneak into the city in the dead of night, to a place neither of them had ever seen, and where they weren’t even certain Jacqueline’s brother was, or how he would react. When they found him, Jacqueline had to threaten to duel him, which probably would have brought the whole city down on their heads, before he agreed to hide Rosalie there.

They kept Rosalie’s presence a secret for over a month from the muggle and magical militias while the ICW and RPF forces took back the country city by city. It was just their luck that Gisenyi was the last city to be liberated. They had more close calls than they cared to remember in those last few days when Ngeze himself swept into town, and they both still had nightmares about it.

Jacqueline had watched the Battle of Gisenyi from the bedroom window and described it to Rosalie, who was hiding under the bed, shaking with fear. She saw the duel between Dumbledore, Grayson, and Ngeze as a fireworks show in the distance. The apartment building shook terribly from the erumpent-induced explosions when the dark lord had set off his stampede, and they were lucky it stayed standing. And even Jacqueline had turned and dived under the bed with Rosalie when she heard the nundu’s demonic roar.

Their scars had come in the aftermath of the battle. When they tried to dig their way through the rubble to find a witch or wizard who could help them get home, Jacqueline had been attacked by the stinging nettle vines that Ngeze had used on the ICW forces, and that was only the first of many dangers they’d faced that day. The wizarding quarter of Gisenyi was a minefield of conjured attacks and unspent curses. Jacqueline’s brother had nearly been killed by a swarm of driver ants, and Rosalie was badly burnt by something that resembled bubotuber pus.

Rosalie shook herself out of her reminiscing. She had an elephant to drive. She inexpertly kicked her heels into the animal’s shoulders—not hard, but enough to make it stop and shake its head in protest.

“Whoa!”

“Hey, easy. She’s not a horse,” Kimpa said.

Rosalie wobbled suddenly and, in a panic, rapped the elephant with her pole several times, harder than she’d intended. The elephant turned around and shook harder, and the inexperienced Rosalie struggled to stay on. But Kimpa reached out fast, steadying her and grabbing the end of the pole at the same time.

“Watch it with that,” she warned. “Whoa, whoa, easy, girl.” Kimpa pulled herself up and leaned forward across Rosalie’s shoulder. Reaching down, she rubbed the top of the elephant’s head affectionately: “It’s alright. She’s just new at this. She didn’t mean to hurt you. You’re doing fine. Keep going.” The elephant calmed down and continued plodding on her way. “Remember, the magical elephants know what they’re doing,” she reminded her friend. “You don’t need to stick her with a hook like a common muggle. Berilia here is very intelligent, aren’t you, girl?”

Berilia made an approving whistling sound.

“You see? She understands. A kind word and light touch are enough to guide her.”

“Yes, just a gentle nudge with the pole, and don’t pull on her ears. You told me,” Rosalie said. “Sorry, Berilia.”

“Often, you won’t even need the pole,” Kimpa said. “She knows where to go.” Indeed, the same space-bending magic that allowed post owls in Europe to never get lost and to deliver their letters faster than the birds could normally fly also allowed the caravan of magical elephants to cross Zaire quicker than ought to have been physically possible. It was even easier on a journey like this because Berilia could move with her herd. The Zairean students needed a whole herd for the caravan, so there was no need to break up the family.

“What would we do without you?” Rosalie asked Kimpa.

“You’d probably still be in Mbandaka,” replied with a laugh. “Here, you want me to take over the rest of the way?”

“No, no, I’ve got it. We’re almost there anyway.”

“It’s really no trouble.”

“Relax, Kimpa,” Jacqueline said. “You just take it easy. You’ve taken care of us for so long. Let us take care of you now.”

She flashed a weary smile and said, “Thank you. Both of you.” Kimpa had been her friends’ rock through their hardships over the past two years. When they tried to make their ill-fated journey home a year ago, she had given them extra money, supplies, and maps at her home, and Jacqueline and Rosalie agreed that they never could have made it without her help. Now that she was recovering, though, they were happy to take care of her.

“Almost there,” Rosalie said, gazing out across the scrub. “I can see the tower now.”

“Good. I’m starving,” Jacqueline said.

“There might still be some fruit in the saddlebags.”

“No, I think Berilia ate the last of it.” She sat in silence for a while as Kimpa settled back against her wearily. “All that death, and they couldn’t bring in that dog, Ngeze,” she mused quietly. The others nodded. All three of them hated the man pretty thoroughly by now for what he’d done to them and their families.

“Yes, bane of our lives,” Rosalie agreed. “I heard a rumour he’s headed to Europe.”

“I’ve heard a lot of rumours. The point is, he’s still out there.”

“Well, if that’s where he’s going, the ICW will be even busier. They’re dealing with two Dark Lords in Britain already, and that’s Albus Dumbledore’s homeland.”

“I hope they fare better than we did. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.”

“Maybe they will. Edward Grayson’s there, too. And I heard a rumour they’re already bringing in more people from the ICW.”

“Sure, they would act faster when the trouble’s in the ICW’s backyard,” Jacqueline groused.

“I don’t know about that,” Rosalie said. “My world history is a little rusty. Did they intervene in Britain’s last civil war?”

“I…don’t remember, either.”

“Let’s not talk about this,” Kimpa cut off the discussion. “Have you thought about what you want to do after graduation?”

Jacqueline tried to shift gears quickly and thought for a minute. “Er…Well…” What did she want to do? Well, she did have one idea. “I guess lately, I’ve been thinking about becoming an Auror.”

Rosalie and Kimpa feel silent. Slowly, both of them turned around and craned their necks to look at her.

“I think I could see that,” Kimpa said softly.

“Really?”

“Yes. You’re a protector. It’s your natural role. I could see it even before the war.”

“Huh. I hadn’t really thought of it that way.”

“Why not?” asked Rosalie. “You were my protector. Weren’t you about to take on a whole city for me?”

Jacqueline smiled awkwardly: “I wouldn’t put it that way, but I guess so. What about you, Kimpa? Any plans?”

“I’ve been thinking about becoming a Healer for a while,” she answered.

“Oh, you’d definitely be good at that,” Rosalie agreed.

“I hope so. Only I haven’t decided human or animal yet.”

Her friends laughed. “Can’t pick just one, can you?” Rosalie said wistfully.

They waited a moment for her to share her plans as well. When she didn’t, Jacqueline posed the question directly.

“I don’t know,” Rosalie said. “You both have big dreams, and I haven’t really thought about it. I always just thought I’d do something nice and quiet and…safe. Maybe even just being a homemaker and starting a family.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Kimpa told her. “The world needs mothers just as much as it needs Aurors and Healers. Being true to yourself is more important than trying to follow someone else’s dream.”

“Thanks,” Rosalie whispered.

“Besides, we still have plenty of time to decide,” Jaqueline said. “Although…” She gave her an appraising look, “I think you’d make a good teacher.”

“You do?” she said in surprise.

“You’re certainly good enough at Charms. You’re the one who did most of the magic to sneak us into Gisenyi, remember? Disillusionment, magical disguises, repelling charms—you could do it.”

“Huh…I’ve never thought about that before, but…maybe I will.”

“Alright, then it’s settled,” Jacqueline said with a laugh. “I’ll fight; Kimpa, you patch me up; and Rosalie, you teach the children.”

They all laughed at that. Things were never so certain, but after all they had been through, they could finally begin to dream big.

Athabasca Academy of Arcana, Alberta, Canada

5 September 1995

Sally-Anne Perks landed with a rush of wind and a thud on the grass with a dozen of her fellow students. Most of them still hadn’t mastered Portkey travel, and they dragged the whole group down to fall in a heap. Most schools had moved on to more comfortable methods of transport, but since Athabasca took all of the English- and French-speaking students outside the United States from Yukon to French Guiana, they still used Portkeys.

“Five thirty-five from Toronto. Welcome back,” said Professor Kakeesheway as she helped the younger students untangle themselves. Sally-Anne stood up, brushed herself off, and looked around with a smile.

I’m home, she thought.

Sally-Anne didn’t have a difficult home life by any stretch. She loved her parents, and her parents loved her. Her father was a professional, and they never wanted for anything important. But she thought of herself as a witch first, even as a muggle-born. The magical world was home to her by now, and especially the school where she spent nine months of the year year.

“Sally-Anne!” her friend, Solange, call from another Portkey point. “Hey, Sally-Anne! Come on!” she motioned for her to catch up. Sally-Anne snapped out of gazing at the castle and hurried to rejoin her friends amid a larger group walking up to the school. She’d been excited to meet people from so many different places when she first came to Athabasca, and she made an effort to befriend many of them. Solange was one of her best friends, despite the fact that they came from practically two different worlds; Sally-Anne came from money while Solange had grown up in what she dispassionately called the slums of Port-au-Prince, but they were alike in so many ways. They were both muggle-borns, for one, and they shared that inquisitiveness that was so common to modern muggle-borns, and they had hit it off at once.

“Hi everybody,” Sally-Anne told her circle of friends as they made their way up the hill. “Have a good summer, eh?”

Most of them had, they said, despite the unsettling goings-on around the world. Things were peaceful in Canada, at least. They were well out of the way.

“You heard about Harry Potter?” Solange asked the question everyone was thinking.

Of course, she’d heard about Harry Potter, Sally-Anne thought. Everyone had heard about Harry Potter. But she had actually met Harry Potter.

Sally-Anne had certainly had an unusual life over the past four years. At first, she’d been overwhelmed when she was told that magic existed, that she was a witch, and that she was invited to study at a secret magical school in Scotland. A shy, quiet girl in an unfamiliar environment, it had taken her a while to settle in. She was lucky to have a friendly roommate who also had grown up in the muggle world in Hermione Granger. Hermione had known about magic for years and was happy to show her the ropes, but as she was constantly busy studying and trying to keep her more famous brother alive, they hadn’t grown very close.

In a place like Hogwarts, where aristocrats and celebrities like Harry Potter garnered most of the attention, Sally-Anne always felt like she was fading into the background there—the least noticed of her roommates, the least involved in any of the exciting happenings at Hogwarts, the least extraordinary—she was average in her classes, she didn’t have extraordinary magical skill, and she was pants on a broom—and as a muggle-born with no connections, much of the school looked down on her. She suspected most people didn’t even notice when she left.

But even so, she enjoyed Hogwarts. She had her small circle of friends (mostly girls from Hufflepuff, as it happened). She had fun learning magic, and it was nearly as fun living in a huge castle with ghosts and talking portraits and moving staircases. Even if the occasional mountain troll or dark wizard broke in, she wouldn’t have traded it for anything.

Then, in second year, things got personal. It wasn’t just a dark wizard acting on some old feud against one student. Several muggle-born students were attacked over the course of the year, and, just like that, it wasn’t so fun anymore. Dad had a standing job offer in Toronto, so her parents had had no reservations about pulling her out over Christmas Holidays and moving the family overseas. It wasn’t just her, after all. They had her little brother, Johnny, to worry about, too. He would be going next year.

And so, come January, Sally-Anne had found herself attending Athabasca Academy of Arcana, and, to her own surprise, she’d never looked back. She found at Athabasca what she didn’t even know she was looking for at Hogwarts: a home in the magical world. Ironically, it wasn’t until she left Hogwarts that she finally realised why she’d been Sorted into Gryffindor. Where she had faded into the background there, at Athabasca, she was an instant (if minor) celebrity, simply because she knew Harry Potter! She happily told them all she knew about him, which wasn’t much, but at least she had firsthand experience. It was the first time she had really been at the centre of attention. Almost no one cared that she was muggle-born here (the Americas were generally considered more tolerant than Europe), and even if it wasn’t for the best of reasons, it finally broke her out of her shell, and by the time the novelty had worn off, she had gained some lifelong friends.

She learnt that she was a crack shot with a wand if she put her mind to it, and with enough motivation behind her, she’d raised her marks to the top quintile in her year. She found that even though she was pants on a broom, she enjoyed watching Quidditch, and she had a gift for commentating—so much so that Professor Delahaye had made her the starting commentator for this year’s matches.

Meanwhile, the news out of Britain kept coming, and it only seemed to get weirder as the years went on. The creature that was terrifying Hogwarts was revealed to be a basilisk and was killed by Harry Potter and his friend, Neville Longbottom. Sally-Anne had always liked Neville. He was very kind and was friendlier with her than the other Gryffindors in her year. She was certainly glad everyone was alright across the pond, but by then, she was so in love with Athabasca that she had no desire to go back.

In her third year, she was very surprised to receive a letter from Harry Potter himself. That was almost a bigger furor than when she’d first arrived. The subject of the letter was equally surprising. Apparently, a little girl in Hogsmeade had been bitten by a werewolf, and Harry was determined to find a school that would take her next year. She’d heard rumours of Harry’s reported compassion and commitment to justice, but this was the first direct show of it she had seen. She was touched by his letter, and dutifully asked the Headmaster, but she’d had to report back to him that he’d have better luck with the United States schools. In the end, it turned out to be unnecessary. Werewolf relations in England were changed for the better after the miraculous capture of the most feared werewolf in Europe…with a little help from Harry Potter, naturally.

Last year, it got even weirder. The international headlines crowed that Harry had been selected as a champion in an extremely dangerous interscholastic tournament…for a school that wasn’t even participating! Sally-Anne and her friends had followed the Tetrawizard Tournament closely, and they were repeatedly amazed by how well Harry did against his far more advanced competition—even if he was the Boy-Who-Lived. Then, last June, a flurry of headlines catapulted him from interesting overseas news to an international sensation.

Harry Potter had won the Tournament.

Harry Potter was an animagus!

Harry Potter said Voldemort was back from the dead!

Harry Potter said La Pantera was working with Voldemort!

That last one was the most worrying to the North Americans. Sally-Anne had learnt to fear Voldemort’s name during her short time in wizarding Britain, but La Pantera was infamous all over the Western Hemisphere. Athabasca’s three students from Belize told horror stories about her. And with that news, everyone was thinking the same thing. There was a very good chance that the ICW would get involved, and God only knew where that would end.

The air was thick with rumours at Athabasca this year. It wasn’t fear, as was surely gripping Britain right now, but there was a growing apprehension such as must have been felt back in muggle Britain in 1938 or 1939—a sense that war was coming, and the only question was when they would be drawn into it.

“Officially, Lord V. is an internal British matter, according to the ICW,” one of the older students, Prefect Lee said. Sally-Anne always thought Lee reminded her of Percy Weasley—ambitious, politically-minded, and a little pompous—but definitely well-informed. It wasn’t uncommon for Voldemort to be known as Lord V. in Commonwealth countries as a sort of compromise between the conventions of Britain and the rest of the world. “However, they’re claiming La Pantera broke some treaty or other. I’m not sure it even matters much which one. As far as the ICW’s concerned, she gave aide to a foreign dark lord, and that puts her within their jurisdiction. That’s why they’re sending a special law enforcement mission to apprehend her.”

“She won’t go quietly,” one of the other prefects said. Sally-Anne couldn’t quite remember his name. “She might do a runner back to Mexico, but she won’t let herself get caught.”

“The ICW won’t slack off either, though,” Solange said. “I heard a rumour back home that Old Coyote is joining the task force.”

“Old Coyote?” Lee said sceptically, “You think MACUSA will let him take that much time away from making wands?”

“That’s just what I heard. Old Coyote fought Grindelwald himself way back when, didn’t he?”

“Yes, but you know how MACUSA is, though. I would’ve thought they’d declare him a national asset or something.”

“I don’t know. Sally-Anne, have you heard anything from Britain?”

Sally-Anne frowned. “Not a lot,” she said. “I wrote a couple of my old friends. They’re scared. I know that. Susan Bones—her’s aunt’s the Director of Magical Law Enforcement—she says the Ministry’s mobilising for war over there, but they’re having a lot of arguments about what to do about dark creatures like dementors, werewolves, and giants.”

“Giants aren’t dark!” another boy yelled. “They don’t even use magic.”

“In Britain, people think they are. They teamed up with Voldemort in the last war—of course, all the giants in Europe have been exiled to Russia, so I don’t know how much difference they’ll make.”

“Did you hear anything about the ICW?” Lee asked.

“All I know for sure is that Edward Grayson is part of the mission. He’s really good, though. I read a lot about the East African War over the summer. He and Dumbledore were doing things I’d never heard of before. Oh, and there’s a rumour about Dumbledore running some secret intelligence-gathering auxiliary, but that might be completely made up.”

“Forget about that,” her friend, Stephen, said, “did you find anything out about Harry Potter?”

Sally-Anne rolled her eyes. This was getting a bit old after two and a half years. “Not much more than I’ve already told you,” she said. “I tried writing him, but I only got a polite reply from his sister saying they were very busy, and a lot of what they were doing was secret.”

“But that means they’re in on it, doesn’t it?” Stephen insisted.

“It means they have to be especially careful because Voldemort is still trying to kill them. She did tell me that Harry really is an animagus and has been since he was a little kid because of what they think was a really weird bout of accidental magic. She wouldn’t say much else, but I heard rumours from the other girls I wrote that Harry’s friends with several werewolves, and he’s trying to help negotiate with the packs.

“Do you think it’s true?” Solange asked with wide eyes. That wasn’t one she’d heard before.

“I don’t know for sure, but I’d believe it. Harry always had a really noble streak, and he’s been involved in politics since his first year. I told you how he was trying to help werewolves the year before last, remember. And all the stories agree he was there when that other champion—Diggory—was killed, and he was a werewolf, too.”

“Will that make them not want to follow Lord V.?” said Solange.

“From what little I know, I’m guessing it won’t matter much,” Sally-Anne replied. “The ones who don’t like the Ministry will probably stay that way.”

“How much influence does Harry Potter have at the Ministry, Perks?” Lee asked with interest. “He’s on their Wizengamot, isn’t he?”

“Something like that. Maybe. It might be through a proxy or something. Sorry, I should know this. I read his book, and he talks all about how he helped the Muggle Protection Act get passed. Susan says it’s all about coalitions and quid pro quid and stuff like that on the Wizengamot anyway, but it does sound like he swung a few votes. I know whenever he talked at school, people listened to him. Except that one time when it came out that he’s a Parselmouth. Half the school thought he was a dark wizard, then. Of course, all that only matters if the Ministry can stand up to Voldemort. Everyone in Britain talks like he had them on the ropes last time.”

“On the ropes?” Stephen asked.

She rolled her eyes. Why couldn’t they get muggle idioms? “Almost beat them? Had them on the edge of the duelling wards?”

“Oh, right. But didn’t Harry Potter beat Lord V. last time?”

“Didn’t you read the book? Harry insists it wasn’t him. His mother put some kind of magical protection on him. He can’t just do the same thing again.”

Everyone around her sank into a subdued silence. Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.

“Well,” Lee broke it, “the real trouble is if La Pantera tries to fight to stay in Britain. If she keeps standing with Lord V., the ICW will have to take on Voldemort directly. That would be bad—”

“Excuse me, bad for whom,” Sally-Anne cut in. “I’ve got friends in Britain. If they can stop Voldemort sooner, it’s good for them.”

“It’s not good for anybody else, though,” Lee insisted. “You said you read up on the East African War. You know what it did to Zaire and Tanzania and the other countries over there. If Lord V. cuts La Pantera loose, he can try to keep the fighting in Britain. Otherwise, it will spill over to other countries. God, can you imagine? A new international wizarding war, in the West? It would be awful. And even if it’s many on one—which it might not be given Scandinavia’s leanings—there’s no guarantee it’ll be faster that way.”

“Well, it can’t be that bad, can it? I mean, Voldemort doesn’t even control the British Ministry.” But he might soon, she was forced to remind herself.

“He’s kind of right,” Solange told her. “Didn’t Ngeze take down, like, three different Ministries in East Africa or something? Even if it goes faster, it could be a lot worse.”

That gave Sally-Anne pause. It was true: Kinani Ngeze did take down three Ministries of Magic in East Africa with his nundu, and the ICW never even figured out how he did it until he chose to reveal it. Suppose Voldemort or La Pantera had a similar trick up their sleeves. Either way, Britain was in a big pickle already, and if the ICW took action, could Canada be affected? Could the Caribbean countries?

“Oh, why are we all standing around, moping?” Solange demanded when the silence stretched too long for her. “Bad things are gonna happen, but the first night back is not the time to dwell on them. “For everything there is a season,” and all that.”

“Amen!” Sally-Anne agreed, clapping her friend on the shoulder.

“Amen! Let’s go eat.”

They laughed and hurried into the castle. But just before she stepped inside, Sally-Anne paused and turned around to take one last look at the grounds. She’d been in love with Athabasca from the moment she’d first laid eyes on it. It had all the best parts of Hogwarts—a castle in a medieval revival style with a lot of First Nations artwork thrown in, magical creatures of all sorts, a view from the higher towers where you could see for miles over the wilderness, and more—but the scenery was even better than Scotland in other ways. The castle was built on a mountainside rather than a ravine. Instead of a gorge below, a river ran practically through the castle, cascading down waterfall after waterfall in between the towers and walkways. The whole school was built up around the landmark. At night, the charms on the dorms muffled the thunder of the waterfalls just the right amount for it to sooth her to sleep.

Unlike Hogwarts, where the only sport was Quidditch, here they had a Quodpot Club, plus whitewater kayaking, of all things, and a few other small sports and clubs. And that wasn’t even counting the quality of the education itself. The classes were definitely more pertinent to the modern witch or wizard. Astronomy was an elective here (which Sally-Anne enjoyed immensely, thank you very much). What Hogwarts called Charms was two classes at Athabasca: one still called Charms, which covered all aspects of wand-work, and the other called Enchantments, which covered magical artifact-making and more diverse forms of magic. Shortcuts to European spells that First Nations wizards had used for millennia were taught in that class, and even low-level rituals weren’t shied away from. And best of all, none of the teachers were as bad as Snape or Binns. Her friends had been horrified when she described those two to them.

And then, there were the local fauna, which were just cooler than the ones in Scotland. A colony of Sasquatch—creatures smarter than trolls and probably on par with giants, at a guess—lived in the forest on the grounds. Though skittish around muggles, Sasquatch were more sociable than the Hogwarts centaurs and merpeople, and it wasn’t uncommon for them to befriend students, and they also helped the groundskeeper rustle a small herd of real live re’em—quite possibly the world’s largest land animal. True, the thunderbirds caused an unholy racket whenever a storm rolled through. And the Magical Creatures teacher, though not on Snape’s level, was a mermaid from Trinidad who could be right scary with that trident of hers, but hey, no place was perfect. After two and a half years, Sally-Anne had learnt to roll with the bad along with the good. In her opinion, just living in a place this beautiful was worth it.

“Sally-Anne, come on! You can reminisce all you want tomorrow!” Solange called.

“Coming, Solange!” she replied. I love this place. She followed her friend inside. Whatever the future would bring, for now, at least, all was right with her world.

With one beefy hand, a purple-faced Vernon Dursley pinned his nephew to the wall while smacking him across the face with the other. “I will not have any of your freakishness in my house, boy!” he bellowed, following it up with another smack.

Harry Potter’s trouble had started before he could remember, but age five was quickly shaping up to be much worse than the previous four years. It had already been bad enough that he was made to sleep in a cupboard, wear his over-sized cousin’s castoffs and do as many chores as he could handle. Somehow, going to primary school just made things worse. His aunt and uncle hadn’t wanted to send him, but they knew they couldn’t get away with keeping him at home, so they grumbled about taking time away from “earning his keep” and sent him away with Dudley. It took all of two days before his cousin and his friends invented their new favourite game of “Harry hunting,” which they engaged in whenever the teachers weren’t looking. It took all of four days before, while being scolded for a teacher for knocking over his juice (which Dudley had actually done), Harry was shocked to see the teacher’s hair turn neon blue.

That evening was the first time Uncle Vernon had hit him himself instead of letting Dudley do it. Young Harry had no idea what was going on and only a vague idea of why he was in trouble. But he couldn’t mistake his uncle ranting all night about his freakishness and vowing to “stamp that rubbish out.”

Harry still had bruises a week later when the next strange, unexplainable thing happened. He didn’t mind being locked in his cupboard too much most of the time. At least it kept his relatives away from him. But something had changed in him after that first beating. The urge to respond, suppressed by years of conditioning, started to assert itself again. Then, after being beat on some more by Dudley’s gang at school and having his loudmouth cousin stomp on the stairs above his head one too many times, that urge crystallised into a single, overwhelming desire: escape.

“You’re going to stay in your cupboard when you’re told, boy!” Uncle Vernon’s rant continued. “You’re not to let yourself out unless we say so. Just like your good-for-nothing parents, always getting into trouble. Worthless, the lot of you!” He punctuated each sentence with either a slap to the face or a punch to the torso.

Harry’s cupboard door had seemingly unlocked itself and flown open with a bang. Uncle Vernon had rushed over and slammed it shut before Harry could react, but it happened twice more right in front of him, at which point he was forcibly dragged out into the living room. As the beating began, Harry willed himself not to cry, but it was a losing battle, and as expected, it only enraged his uncle more. By now, he didn’t even notice Aunt Petunia and Dudley standing by and scowling at him.

“Don’t you cry at me, boy, or I’ll give you something to cry about!”

With that last punch, Harry’s crying jumped an octave. Then, the lights started flickering, and the doors and windows began to rattle.

“Vernon!” Aunt Petunia cried with a twinge of fear.

“Stop that! Stop that right now, you little freak!”

Harry kicked to try to get away, but his uncle held him too tight. Unseen by anyone, the lights began flipping on and off in all of the rooms at once. The floors began to vibrate.

“Daddy!” Dudley cried.

“Stop that this instant!”

BANG!

As Harry’s cries ascended to an inhuman yowl, every light bulb in the house exploded, every door slammed open, and all three Dursleys were thrown across the room and landed in a heap. When they came to their senses, Harry Potter was nowhere to be seen.

Vernon ran to the door, shouting, “Get back here, boy! Boy? I said get back here!” But there was no sign of his nephew. “He can’t have got far,” he said, finally lowering his voice. He saw the neighbours staring, now, drawn to the windows by the minor earthquake that had struck Privet Drive. Grumbling, he gave up and shut the door.

He did not notice a small black cat sitting in the bushes by the door—a cat with white feet, piercing green eyes, and a strange, white zigzag mark on its head. When he shut the door, the cat ran away down the street without looking back.

“Vernon, what happened?” Petunia asked in the half-destroyed living room.

“Little freak ran away, and I say let him go. They’ll find him soon enough. I’ll fix the lights tomorrow.”

The Dursleys closed up the house and took an uneasy dinner by candlelight. They sincerely hoped that their troubles were over for the time being, but they would be visited by strangeness twice more that evening.

With the first visit, two Ministry of Magic Obliviators appeared at the door and stunned the Dursleys before they could even get a word in. There was no sign of any wizards wandering around the neighbourhood, and the Trace showed no underage magic users on the premises, so the Ministry had concluded the magical discharge at 4 Privett Drive was caused by a passing troublemaker. The Obliviators repaired the damaged light fixtures, set right the overturned furniture, mended the splinters broken from the doors, and wiped all memory of the incident from the Dursleys’ minds.

They cast a warming charm on the food just before they Rennervated the family, so that not even the smallest detail was out of place. They left without even looking at the cupboard under the stairs, and the Dursleys awoke thinking nothing unusual had happened.

The other visitor that evening wore a purple robe and a long, white beard. Albus Dumbledore was more worried than he had been in years when he knocked on the door on Number 4. Even from the outside, a quick detection charm told him that Harry Potter was not in the house.

A tall, lanky, horse-faced woman opened the door to the shock of her life. “You!” she shouted. “What are you doing here?”

“A pleasure to see you, too, Petunia,” Dumbledore said flatly.

“Who is it Petunia?” Vernon called.

“It’s that freak who left the boy with us.”

“What?” Vernon barged to the door. “You! You can have that boy back. We never wanted him in the first place.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows shot up at this. The Dursleys seemed to be even more unfriendly than he expected, and the large man was gearing up for a serious rant. He cut him off quickly by saying, “Where is the boy?”

“He’s right…” Vernon stopped. The boy was supposed to be in his cupboard, but not only could he not get away with saying that, for some reason he didn’t think it was true. He tried to think over what had happened that evening. It was coming back a blur but he managed to recall one true fact: “The boy ran away this afternoon. Just took off down the street, couldn’t keep up with him. And I say good riddance. Let someone else take care of him for a change.”

“And you just let him go off on his own?”

“Yes. He’s been nothing by trouble from the start…”

Dumbledore tuned out the rant. From their behaviour, something was definitely not right. He took a peek inside the two adult Dursleys’ minds, but he didn’t have to look far to find an answer, though he wished he hadn’t: telltale signs of obliviation, and what looked like a pretty lousy job of it, too. Something horrible had happened here and been shoddily covered up.

“…and I won’t tolerate any more of his freakishness!”

“Enough!” Dumbledore shouted before stunning all three of them. Casting a new memory charm to cover the old one, he instructed them: “You are very concerned because your nephew ran away. You will contact the authorities immediately. You will ask Arabella Figg to keep an eye out for him, and you will inform her at once when he is found. You will not remember my visit tonight.” When he was done, he hit them with a delayed Rennervate that gave him just enough time to step outside the property line and apparate to the gates of Hogwarts.

Minerva McGonagall entered the Headmaster’s office to find him bent over some of his many devices with a frown, muttering incantations, with a look in his eyes that was darker than any she had seen in years. “Albus, what’s wrong?” she asked. “You said it was urgent.”

Albus looked up. “Oh, Minerva, I fear something terrible has just happened,” he said. “I have reason to believe that Harry Potter has been taken.”

“What?” Minerva stumbled in shock, but managed to sit herself down. “Taken? How?”

“This afternoon, he dropped off my trackers entirely. They indicate that he is still alive, but I cannot find him anywhere.”

“You can’t find him? But what could do such a thing?”

“To block my tracking charms would require the boy to be hidden behind very powerful wards that I am not keyed into, possibly a Fidelius Charm. I’ve just returned from his relatives’ house. They claimed that he had run away, but in their minds, I saw obvious signs of obliviation.”

Minerva put the pieces together. “Someone, somehow, got through your wards, kidnapped him, hid him behind these other wards, and obliviated his relatives. And because they didn’t involve you…”

Albus nodded grimly. “We can only assume that their intent is nefarious.”

She shot to her feet. “We must find him, Albus!”

“Yes, we must,” he agreed, “but it must be done discreetly. We cannot risk panicking the public or tipping our own hand.”

“But the boy…”

“Is still alive for the time being, which suggests that their intent is not to kill him. I also saw no indication that the blood wards had been breached, so whoever actually took him did not mean overt harm. We must begin investigating places and individuals who would have access to those kinds of wards, but we cannot allow the boy’s enemies to know he is missing. That would be an even greater disaster.”

Minerva sank back down in her seat. “I suppose you’re right, Albus. I’ll begin looking with what little time I can spare.”

“Thank you, Minerva. I will do the same.”

Harry Potter, at that moment, was wandering the streets of Little Whinging, very confused. He was happy to have got away from his relatives, but he had no idea how he had done it. From the fur and tail, he could tell that he had been turned into some kind of animal. It wasn’t until he managed to see a distorted reflection in a car hubcap that he figured out that that animal was a cat. He didn’t know how he could have turned into a cat, nor did he know how to change back, but he could guess that it had something to do with the “freakishness’ his uncle had been shouting about, and he decided to get farther away before trying.

Adding to his confusion were the strange sensations that accompanied being a cat. He could see amazingly well in the fading light. His whiskers tickled his face with the slightest breeze. He was surrounded by high pitched squeaks and chirps that he had never noticed before. But the most disorienting part was the smells. He was bombarded by dozens of unfamiliar smells, some of them completely overpowering to his human mind, but all sensed individually. He could only identify a few of them—the most prevalent were the grass, the dirt, and the autumn leaves—but there were many others, trails presumably left by animals, by people, by passing cars, all subtly different in ways he couldn’t explain.

Harry must have looked a rather strange cat, wandering back and forth across the yards, stopping every few steps, looking all around, and sometimes turning around before moving on as he tried to take in everything about the world around him. He quickly got turned around doing this, and he had only made it a few blocks before he had got thoroughly lost.

While he didn’t care about being able to find his aunt and uncle’s house again, he presently realised that he was quite hungry, and thirsty, not to mention sore from the beating he had received, and he didn’t know how to deal with any of those things as a cat.

Water wasn’t that hard to find. He wasn’t used to drinking water from anything but a glass or a garden hose, but enough people in Little Whinging had ponds or pools or fountains, and he wasn’t about to be picky. He came to the first small pond he found, and he was surprised to learn that one of the scents he could now smell was that of water. He was reasonably sure water didn’t have a smell as a human. With a little practice, he was able to lap up the water like he had seen cats do in pictures.

Food was harder to find. Harry knew that cats were supposed to eat mice, but he didn’t know how to catch mice, and he wasn’t sure he could actually eat one if he did. He’d also heard of people feeding stray cats that showed up on their porches. He decided to try pawing at the back door of the house with the pond, only to find himself faced with a woman who acted disturbingly like his Aunt Petunia and shooed him away with a broom. Running away in fright, he resolved to find some other source of food.

He saw a couple of other cats and tried to follow them, hoping they knew where to find food, but they hissed at him when he got too close. But they had to eat, too, so there must be food somewhere nearby. After a while, he decided that since his cat’s nose could smell water, maybe he could follow it to some food. He sniffed the air and got a whiff of a bunch of smells, some of which, though he didn’t know why, did smell tasty. Haltingly, he followed one trail to an open rubbish bin. After scaring away a squirrel that had dived into it, he investigated. The smell of rot was overwhelming, but he could tell that part was coming from further down. He found some table scraps on top, even some meat. They were dirty, but not rotten. He grabbed a big chunk of half-eaten chicken with his teeth and dragged it far enough away that he could stand the smell. After four years of table scraps, it wasn’t much worse than he was used to. Holding it with his paws, he dug in and was surprised how easily the chicken came apart in his sharp teeth.

A little while later, Harry found a warm spot to curl up in (unbeknownst to him, on the other side of a wall from a poorly-insulated water heater) and went to sleep. It had been a hard start, but he began to think that he would enjoy being a cat more than being a human trapped at the Dursleys’ house.

Weeks passed. Albus Dumbledore and Minerva McGonagall investigated thoroughly, but found nothing. There was no movement from any known former death eaters. Severus Snape reported that he had heard nothing. Amelia Bones, though she was only partially privy to their information, heard no rumblings of Ministry interference, and no whispers seemed to float through any part of the magical underworld. It seemed as if Harry Potter had vanished without a trace.

Harry himself, of course, was oblivious to all of this. He spent his days trying to learn how to be a proper cat. It took some time to figure out all the new smells and tastes. He was a little annoyed that he could no longer see the colour red, and the other colours were strangely muted, but he saw no choice but to accept it. He wandered the streets, often following other cats, dumpster diving for food, and sleeping a lot. After a few days, he found he had wandered out of town. There were few rubbish bins out here, but he could still smell something tasty. He followed the trail just in time to hear some of those high-pitched squeaks and see a mole scamper into its burrow. He immediately backed away and vowed to stick to the rubbish bins (after all, what five-year-old, even a boy, wants to eat live rodents?), but after a couple of days in the country, he realised how hard it was to find food and decided to try again. It took a couple more days before he successfully caught anything and a couple of hours before he could bring himself to eat it, but when he did, he was surprised how good mice tasted. He wondered if they tasted better to a cat or if the humans were just missing out.

He kept wandering from town to town, not really caring where he was going. By November, he had got good enough at hunting to get by and had even started cleaning his fur with his tongue, like a real cat (although he hated the hairballs). Hunting was actually fun when he was the hunter instead of the hunted running from Dudley’s gang. Harry would never hunt people, though, just small birds and rodents. Yes, he was enjoying life as a cat more than he ever had as human, except for one thing: the nights were growing colder and colder. He didn’t want to spend the whole winter outdoors, so he started working up the courage to look for a human who would take him in.

A couple days’ searching had netted him a bowl of cream and little bit of liver, but no entry into anyone’s house. He was just starting his search again on the third morning, when he noticed a little girl with bushy brown hair reading a book on a bench swing in her backyard. The wind blew in his direction, and he caught a scent from her—a strange scent, but an oddly familiar one. He moved closer to investigate, suddenly feeling something he hadn’t felt in weeks and didn’t presently know how to accomplish: a desire to actually talk to someone.

Hermione Granger was the only girl in her Year 1 class who was already into chapter books. Some of them were still learning to read in the first place. The other kids looked at her funny because she was reading books without pictures in them, but she didn’t care…much. The stories were just too interesting to stick to the short ones with lots of pictures.

She was thoroughly engrossed in one of her chapter books when she heard a small mewling sound and looked down to see and adorable black and white kitten staring back up at her with the greenest eyes she’d ever seen.

“Hello, there,” the little girl said.

The kitten just stared back, then mewled again.

“Would you like to sit with me?” She patted the bench beside her. To her surprise, the kitten leapt onto the bench. Maybe it had been trained. But it didn’t have a collar. She idly wondered if her parents would let her get a cat. She reached out to scratch the kitten behind the ears, but it recoiled at her touch.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” The cat stepped back and mewled again.

Hermione considered going back to her book, but a live kitten was much more interesting, even if not too sociable. “So…what are you doing here,” she asked it.

The kitten took a step forward and gingerly batted at her leg with a paw.

She was sure the kitten was just being silly, but she decided to play along. Not at all expecting a response, she said, “You came to see me?”

The kitten nodded its head.

Hermione’s eyes went wide. She leaned down closer, but it backed a step away. “Can you…understand me?” she said.

The kitten nodded again.

“Wow…neat!” she held her hand out as if to shake its paw. “My name’s Hermione. What’s yours?”

The kitten stared at her for a long moment, cocking its head to one side. Then, something happened that she never expected. In a blink, the kitten grew and changed into a little boy in tattered clothes, sitting on his haunches and staring at her with those same green eyes. Then the boy said, “Harry.”

“Ahhhh!” Hermione dropped her book and ran inside the house.

Emma Granger heard her daughter scream and looked up from making lunch just in time to see her dashing through the kitchen door.

“Hermione—?”

“Mummy, Mummy, there’s a kitty outside who turned into a boy!”

That probably counted as the strangest thing her daughter had ever said, and there had been some pretty odd occurrences before. “What, did that happen in your book?” Emma asked.

“No, Mummy, he’s really there! Come and see!” Her daughter took her by the hand and practically dragged her outside with the same gusto that she usually reserved for the library. Few things would stop her in that state, but the fact that this wasn’t book related—not to mention impossible—was a little strange, even with her imagination.

“Hermione, I have to make lunch, and…” Emma tried to pull away, but she stopped short when she passed through the door and saw the small figure squatting on the bench swing. He looked maybe four or five years old, but he was small and thin. Emma’s general medicine training from dental school told her he was clearly underweight. Worse, he was dirty, dressed in little more than rags, and shivering in the morning air, as if he had been wandering around outside for days, if not longer. He also had a nasty-looking scar on his forehead and a haunted look in his eyes.

“He said his name’s Harry,” Hermione said, but it barely registered for either of them.

The boy locked eyes with Emma and bolted across the yard.

“Wait!” she said.

Harry wanted to run, but four years of conditioning to do as he was told combined with the memory that he did want to find someone to help him stopped him. He turned around and waited, trembling at the matching brown-haired woman and young girl who approached him.

“Are your mum and dad near here?” Emma asked.

The boy stared at her, then down at the ground. After a moment, he shook his head sadly.

Well, it was no use waiting outside, then. “You must be freezing out here. Please come inside; we can get you warmed up.”

The boy took a step back and looked between the two of them, seemingly on the verge of taking off again.

“He’s scared, Mummy,” Hermione said, to her mother’s surprise. Emma hated to admit it, but her daughter’s social skills were not up to the level of her academics. But now, she approached the boy slowly, unbeknownst to Emma, still treating him more like a kitten than a boy, and slowly held out her hand again. “It’s okay, we won’t hurt you…Are you hungry? We were just about to have lunch. Mummy can make you an extra sandwich.”

By now, Harry had no idea what was going on. He couldn’t remember anyone ever offering him a sandwich. He thought about running again. But this Hermione girl actually seemed nice—just nice enough to give him some hope. He nodded and gave her a weak “mm-hmm” before reaching out and taking her hand.

Emma watched the scene unfold with growing fascination—and worry. The little boy not only looked awful, but he also seemed terrified of her and even nervous about taking the hand of a girl his own age, and it wasn’t because of cooties. In her mind, that was a very bad sign.

The fact that Hermione seemed to be instinctively handling him so as not to alarm him, well, that was just unusual.

Emma ran ahead of them to the house and called up the stairs, “Dan, could you get a blanket, please?” She turned around to see the boy standing on the threshold and trembling as Hermione tried to tug on his wrist and bring him into the house. She had, of course, remembered to pick up her book on the way. “It’s all right, come on in,” Emma said. She tried to offer one of her own hands, but he didn’t take it. “This way.” She motioned for them to follow and sat them both down on the sofa in the living room.

“Emma, here’s the blanket. What’s wro—Who’s this?” Daniel Granger stopped on the bottom step of the stairs as he saw the dirty, unfamiliar little boy sitting on the sofa. When the boy saw him, he tensed up and started to pull away, turning to one side while keeping his eyes locked on him.

Harry stared warily at the unfamiliar man. He wasn’t big and fat like Uncle Vernon, but he was tall and intimidating, and he looked a few years younger with his dark brown hair, and in better shape, too. He didn’t look like the kind of person Harry wanted to cross any more than Uncle Vernon did.

“It’s okay, it’s just my Daddy,” Hermione said. “Daddy, this is Harry. He’s a cat.”

“What?”

Emma took the blanket from him and lowered her voice, saying, “I have no idea, but he needs help. He looks like he’s been lost for days, and he seems to be afraid of people.” She turned back the the sofa and gently wrapped it around the boy, giving him a light pat on the shoulder. “Better?” she asked.

He didn’t answer.

“Just stay there. I’ll get you something to eat.”

“He needs some milk, Mummy, “cause he’s a cat,” her daughter called after her.

Dan sat in the chair opposite the two children. “A cat, Hermione?”

“I saw him. He was a cat, and then he turned into a boy.” She looked completely serious. The boy just stared at him.

“And, I think our daughter’s finally snapped,” he whispered to himself. It was bad enough that time she had a nightmare and, somehow, every light in the house switched on. It had taken him all day to find all of them, including a couple he had forgotten they owned and one that he was sure had burned out. Now, she just seemed to be slipping into her own little fantasy world.

He tried turning his attention to the boy. “So what’s your name, son?” he asked.

The boy stared at him and shivered. His voice was barely audible, and he stumbled over the sounds, but he answered, “Harry…sir…” and then after thinking about it a little more, “Harry P-P-Potter.”

“Pleased to meet you, Harry Potter. My name is Daniel Granger, and I think you’ve already met my wife, Emma, and my daughter, Hermione.”

The boy kept staring. Dan wasn’t sure if he was blinking. “P-p-pleased to meet you, sir,” he said, as if he did not for a moment believe it.

Dan could see what his wife meant about Harry being lost for days. He looked scared of his shadow, his face was grimy, his hands were scratched up, and he smelled…well, disturbingly like wet fur. Why he had just shown up like that was anyone’s guess. Dan hadn’t heard of any missing children in Crawley. In fact, there probably would have been a notice for a major case like this anywhere in West Sussex. And the boy didn’t look like he would be quick to volunteer information.

Still, Dan tried to make some light conversation. “So, Harry, what are you doing here?” he asked.

Harry turned and stared at Hermione. He held her gaze without speaking until she answered for him: “He wanted to talk to me.”

“Oh? Do you know him?”

“No, but he said he wanted to.”

“So why did you want to talk to Hermione, Harry? Do you like her?” Dan teased.

“Daddy!”

But the grin was wiped off Dan’s face when he saw Harry look down at his bare feet in shame. “I’m sorry, Harry. It was just a joke,” he said, trying to make amends.

Harry’s gaze shot back up at Dan’s face with a look of confusion. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had apologised to him. Once again, he had no idea what was happening.

Just then, Emma returned from the kitchen with a tray of sandwiches and some drinks, including some milk for the children. She set the tray down on the coffee table and made a point of serving Harry first.

Harry just looked at his plate like he didn’t know what to do with it. Even at five years old, he could count four sandwiches and four people, which made some sort of sense, but all of his conditioning told him there must be some sort of mistake.

“Go ahead, eat up,” the woman named Emma told him. The other three were already starting in on their sandwiches.

Moving slowly, Harry picked up his sandwich with both hands, waiting for someone to tell him off, but no one did. When he brought it to his mouth, he sprang into motion and started eating as fast as he could. He vaguely noticed that the sandwich tasted much sweeter than he was used to (in fact, he couldn’t remember tasting anything sweet in quite a while), but he didn’t slow down to pay attention to it.

He also didn’t notice Dan and Emma staring at his eating habits with raised eyebrows, nor Hermione watching with a look that changed from amused to vaguely disgusted and back again. But he did finally hear her giggle and say, “You’re supposed to chew it, silly.” It was the kind of comment that could only come from a dentists’ child. Harry flushed beet red with embarrassment and put the sandwich down. He picked up his glass and tried to lap up the milk, causing Hermione to giggle again and both of her parents to snort in surprise. But Harry quickly remembered that glasses were the wrong shape for lapping and took a large gulp the human way, then went back to the food, being careful to take individual bites.

“Um…now, Harry,” Dan said, more gently this time, “can you tell us what you wanted to talk to Hermione about?”

Harry set down his sandwich and swallowed. Still looking down at his plate, he said, “I…I smelled something.”

“Excuse me?” Hermione said.

He turned to face her. He hesitated before continuing, but it was why he was here: “You smell like me.”

“I do not!” the girl scoffed, putting her hands on her hips. “You smell like a cat—and you need a bath, too.”

“Hermione, be nice,” her mother scolded as Harry just looked back down at his plate. He couldn’t smell whatever he had smelled before as a human. He could tell that he still smelled like a cat, but he knew that wasn’t it.

What Emma really wanted was to get Harry’s story—where he had come from and why he had shown up looking as he did, but she sensed he didn’t want to give away a lot of information, so she tried a slightly more roundabout method. Even that was hard, since he hesitated before each answer, half-whispered them, and was reluctant to meet her eyes. “How did you get here, Harry,” she asked casually.

“Walked.”

“Where do you live.”

He seemed to think hard about this one. “Outside.”

“Did you live somewhere before you lived outside.”

The boy nodded without speaking. Emma backed off from the topic for the moment. “How long did you live outside?”

Harry had to think again. “Long time.”

“Were you out there yesterday?”

He nodded without hesitation.

“Were you out there…were you out there all the time since Halloween.”

He nodded again. That meant a few days, at least.

She didn’t know how well he knew dates, or even would have known under better conditions, but she had a bad feeling where this was going. “Were you…what was…do you remember what the weather was like when you started living outside?”

He thought about it. “Warmer.”

“Do you remember when it was?”

Harry started to look uncomfortable as he remembered how his adventure has started. He had no clue what day it was and hadn’t bothered counting, but he did know the season was changing, and…school! “I-I don’t know…” he stammered. “School had just started.”

Hermione gasped, and her parents suppressed a similar response. “You mean you’ve been living outside since September?” the little girl said.

Harry looked back at her and nodded, very slowly.

“Oh no, that’s awful! What happened?” She leaned over and hugged him, but he fought back, crying out, pushing himself away and finally slapping her blindly to escape her grasp.

Both of her parents shot to their feet. They nearly tripped over each other as Emma sought to interpose herself between Harry and her husband. Dan tried to comfort his crying daughter, but Harry was the louder of the pair.

“I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” he yelled over and over as he struggled to get away. Around them, the lights began to flicker.

Emma held him as gently as she could by his upper arms. “Harry! Harry, it’s okay. Calm down. It’s okay.” She tried to avoid his kicking feet. “It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.” She held him there, still, sobbing, and then only sniffling, as the lights went back to normal.

“He wasn’t being mean to you Hermione. You just scared him,” Dan whispered to his daughter, trying to placate her anger. She calmed down too, but she eyed the boy much more warily.

Emma shifted to the sofa, still trying to keep no more contact with the boy than necessary, so he didn’t feel she was restraining him too much, but she wrapped the blanket he had thrown off around him again and put an arm around his shoulders. “Now, Harry, we want to help you. If you tell us what’s wrong, we can help you try to fix it. Can you tell us why you started living outside?”

She felt his muscles tense up; then they relaxed, and he shivered. Then, this repeated itself, and with a look of determination, he began, haltingly, to speak.

It this case, it was probably a good thing that Harry was so young. Uncle Vernon hadn’t quite got the message across that he wasn’t to talk about his home life. And though he felt ashamed of it, it wasn’t to the depth that he would have felt if he were older. So aside from his overall nervousness, he wasn’t all that resistant to telling his story.

“I…uh, Uncle Vernon was mad because I didn’t stay in my cupboard,” he began.

“Your cupboard?” Emma interrupted.

“Yeah…uh…where I sleep,” he whispered.

“You slept in a cupboard?” Hermione demanded in surprise.

Both her parents looked at her. “Hermione, go up to your room, please,” her father told her with a voice that brokered no argument. “Your Mummy and I have to talk to Harry alone. Reluctantly, she grabbed the rest of her sandwich and her book and started climbing the stairs while her father grabbed a pen and paper and feverishly started writing down notes.

Through tears, and with plenty of coaxing from Emma, Harry explained how his uncle had hit him twice and had let his cousin hit him many times, how he was treated by the Dursleys and how they told him to his face that they didn’t want him. Given his age, behaviour, and physical state, and having worked with kids in difficult circumstances through their practice, they couldn’t find any reason to doubt his words. Emma was on the verge of tears herself by the end, while Dan simply looked enraged. With a short word, he stalked off to the kitchen to call the police.

Harry wasn’t sure what to make of these grown-ups’ reactions. They were sad and angry, but they didn’t seem to be sad or angry at him. Through the conversation, he had leaned closer to Emma and finally allowed her to hug him. It was a strange feeling. He remembered being hugged by Mrs. Figg twice, his teacher once, and even Aunt Petunia once—a long, long time ago—but none of those felt nearly as warm and comforting as this, especially when Emma began running her fingers through his unkempt hair. He still didn’t like being restrained, but for once in his life, he didn’t feel actively threatened by the contact.

Emma pulled back and looked him in the eyes and said, “Harry, here’s what we’re going to do for you. My husband and I are going to help you find a new home so you don’t have to live outside anymore, and you don’t have to live with your mean aunt and uncle either. If everything you told us is true, I think it will happen soon.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. No one had ever described Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia as mean—out loud, anyway. And he couldn’t believe his ears about the rest of it. He wondered again if this was some kind of cruel trick.

It was a few more minutes before Dan reentered the room. “The police are on the case,” he said. “They said a Harry Potter matching his description was reported missing by a family in Surrey seven weeks ago. They’re sending someone to the address to investigate, and they’re sending a social worker here as soon as one’s available. I told them we could watch him for the afternoon.

“That’s good. Do you think they’ll take action?”

“Are you kidding? If they find half the stuff I told them, those monsters will be hauled right out on their—”

“Dan, language,” his wife stopped him. “Hermione, you can come back down, now,” she called.

Her daughter bounded back down the stairs and took the seat on the couch next to Harry.

“Hermione, Harry doesn’t have anywhere to go right now, so he’s going to stay here for the afternoon until someone can come to help him,” Emma explained.

“Okay.” The girl turned to Harry and asked, “Are you going to turn back into a cat?”

“Hermione, he’s not—” Emma was cut off when the doorbell rang. “That can’t be the social worker already.”

She left the room and opened the front door. Then, she took a step back. Standing there on the threshold was the most bizarre-looking man she had ever seen. He had a long white beard and white hair, both of which descended to his waist. He also wore a large, flowing purple robe with gold stars on it, and a hat that looked like a nightcap.

“Good afternoon, Madam,” the man said in a kindly voice, seemingly oblivious to her stare. “My name is Albus Dumbledore. I’m looking for a young boy named Harry Potter. Have you seen him here?”

Emma blinked at the man’s strange request and even stranger name. “Are you the social worker?” she asked.

Dumbledore went from serene to confused in an instant. “Um, no, I don’t believe so. I am a friend of the boy’s family.”

“Then you can tell his so-called family to get lost,” she spat. “He’s not going back there.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows shot up under the brim of his hat. His fingers tensed on the tip of his wand, in case this should turn hostile. He didn’t expect any opposition in a muggle neighbourhood, but it would be a good hideout for unsavoury characters. “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding, Ms…”

“Granger. Emma Granger, and there most certainly is not. I won’t see that boy sent back to that hell house—”

At that moment, she was cut off by two loud shouts from the living room. The first was her husband yelling, “Oh my God—Emma!,” and the second, before she could react, was her daughter’s triumphant cry of, “See, I told you he was a cat.”

Albus Dumbledore heard the shouts and surmised that something magical had just happened, though the most obvious explanation was patently impossible. He followed close on Emma Granger’s heels into the living room, where he saw an extremely flustered man backing away from a little girl playing with a black and white kitten on the sofa.

“Dan?” Emma said.

“That…that boy, he just…he turned into a cat!”

“What?” Emma and Dumbledore exclaimed in unison.

At that moment, Hermione looked in their direction and gave a squeal of joy before running straight toward the old man. “Santa Claus!” she yelled, wrapping herself around his legs before her mother pulled her away.

Any other time, and Dumbledore would have laughed at that display. He rarely worked with children young enough to make that mistake, but for now he was too preoccupied with finding Harry. “I’m afraid not, my dear,” he told the girl. “My name is Albus Dumbledore.” The parents both looked torn between half a dozen different questions, so he decided to try his luck with the girl. “What’s this I hear about a cat?”

The girl ran back to the sofa and showed off the kitten. “This is Harry,” she said. “He’s a kitten who turns into a boy…or a boy who turns into a kitten.”

As the parents quickly whispered back and forth to each other, Dumbledore approached the sofa and leaned down close to get a good look at the kitten, which seemed to sniff Hermione’s hand, and then his own. It was black with white feet, bright green eyes, and a white mark on its head—a white mark that looked like a lightning bolt.

“Ha—Harry Potter?” he whispered.

The kitten tilted its head as if in thought, then its form rippled and grew and reformed into that of a grimy and frightened-looking little boy with green eyes and a scar on his forehead. Then, the boy said, “Yes, sir.”

A scream behind them came from Emma Granger.

“Astounding,” Dumbledore said, “an animagus at your age. How did you do that, Harry?”

“I…I don’t know, sir,” he answered, his mind already reeling at the strange old man who seemed to know more than he did.

“Mister D-D-Dumbledore,” Daniel Granger stammered, now pressed against the wall. “What are you doing here, and…how the hell is this possible?”

Dumbledore turned around with a twinkle in his eye as the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. “That, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, was magic.”

“Magic?” Dan Granger said.

“Yes.”

“Magic?” his wife repeated.

“Yes.”

“…Okay, I guess that makes more sense than anything else,” Dan said, eyeing the ridiculously-dressed old man with unmasked suspicion. “I take it you can also do magic?”

“I can, Mr. Granger. I am a wizard, as is young Harry here, although the ability to change into an animal is not one of my talents.”

“Is that why you smell like me, sir?”

All eyes turned to Harry. This was the most he had said unprompted all afternoon.

“What do you mean, Harry?”

Harry pushed himself against the back of the sofa to try to keep his distance from the strange, apparently magical man. Magic certainly explained the cat thing, but, he thought there might be more. “I could smell you…you smelled like me…sir…Hermione smelled like me, too…but I don’t smell it now.”

“Hmm, I wonder…” Dumbledore muttered to himself. Cats did have a good sense of smell, almost as good as dogs. And there was a reason they were such popular familiars. He turned back around and slowly drew his wand from his sleeve. “Mr. and Mrs. Granger, will you permit me to cast a magic detection charm? It is not dangerous. It will simply identify all sources of magic in this room.”

The Grangers could see where this is going, even if they didn’t want to believe it. Still, their day had got weird enough already, and if this magic could turn a boy into a cat, they probably couldn’t stop him. Dan looked at his wife, shrugged his shoulders, and then they nodded at Dumbledore.

The old man waved the carved stick in the air and muttered a complex incantation. In a moment, a golden aura surrounded him, a fainter aura surrounded Harry…and another one Hermione.

“Extraordinary,” he said. “I must congratulate you, Mr. and Mrs. Granger. Your daughter is a witch.”

Her parents twitched at the strange choice of words, but they said nothing as they processed this information.

“Cool!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Can you turn into a cat, too?” Harry asked her.

“I…I don’t think so…”

“No, Miss Granger, I’m afraid not,” Dumbledore said. “It normally takes years of training to accomplish. I have never before heard of anyone who can do it naturally like Harry. Harry, I believe that as a cat, you were able to smell Hermione’s magic, just as you were able to smell mine. Is that why you came here?”

That actually made sense to Harry. It was a lot to take in, but as he thought about it, it explained everything, all the way back to the blue hair. And the strange smell must have been magic. He nodded to Dumbledore.

“Now wait just a minute,” Dan said, finally breaking out of his shock. “How does that even work? How can Hermione be magical if we’re not? It must be rare, right?”

“Yes, Mr. Granger,” Dumbledore explained. “It is true that magic normally runs in families. However, your daughter is what we call ‘muggle-born’—a magical child born to non-magical parents. And yes, it is quite rare, with only a few muggle-born births in England each year. But surely you have noticed unusual things going on around her? Especially when she becomes emotional?”

“Yes…” Emma confirmed. “But then what does that mean?”

“It means that your daughter has an extraordinary gift. And when she reaches the age of eleven, she will be able to attend Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry with Harry and other magical children from the British Isles.”

“Hogwarts…School of Witchcraft and Wizardry?”

Dumbledore nodded. “I, myself, am the headmaster.”

That raised some eyebrows. Without fully understanding the small size of the wizarding world, muggles were often confused by Albus Dumbledore’s many roles, and the present visit was even outside of those.

“Well if that’s true, what are you doing here?”

“As I said, I am a friend of Mr. Potter’s family—”

Emma’s eyes flashed with fire, and a glare came across her husband’s face. “And I told you we don’t want anything to do with that boy’s horrible aunt and uncle,” she said.

“Wha—? I apologise, Mrs. Granger. I haven’t made myself clear. I meant to say that I was a friend of Mr. Potter’s parents.” The wheels in Dumbledore’s mind were spinning at Emma’s last comment, but he didn’t have time to question her further before he heard a small boy’s voice whisper, “You knew my parents?”

All eyes turned back to Harry. Dumbledore absentmindedly conjured a stool and sat down to face him directly, causing everyone else in the room to flinch. “I did, Harry,” he said gently. “Your parents were good people, and their loss was a blow to us all.”

Harry’s eyes were wide in surprise—and confusion. “But…but…but Aunt Petunia said my parents were…” He frowned in concentration, trying to remember the exact words. “They were worthless drunks and died in a car crash.”

“What?” Dumbledore exclaimed, rising right off the stool again. “You mean they didn’t tell you?”

“Tell me what, sir?”

“Why would they tell him anything?” Emma snapped. “They barely fed him.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, if you were such a good friend, why didn’t you check up on him,” Dan added.

“I…”

“They made him sleep in a cupboard, too!” the little girl said. She held Harry’s hand, as he had started crying.

“Enough!” A pulse of energy shot out from Dumbledore’s wand, forcing everyone to sit down. The Grangers were shocked at this display of power, even as small as it was by wizarding standards. He raised his wand to them, then hesitated, just for a moment. He would rather not do this to yet another family, but there was little choice. He had to find out what happened and assess any risks to the boy. He would glean any useful information from their minds, wipe their memories of the morning, and take Harry back home.

But as he looked from the eyes of one Granger to the next, he was disturbed by what he saw, or rather what Harry had told them. Even knowing what he knew about Petunia Dursley and his contact with her in September, the boy’s stories about his relatives were shocking. Was it really not the memory charms that had made them behave so unkindly two months ago? It seemed unbelievable, but he could find no sign of deception or memory charms in the Grangers’ minds, and even their daughter had heard some of it. What kind of people could do that to their own nephew?

With growing trepidation, he looked into Harry’s mind. It was a serious risk, since any legilimency contact risked Dumbledore’s own secrets, but if things had got this bad, he had to know, and he was dismayed to find that they had. He searched for the night Harry had left the Dursleys,” and the pieces fell into place: the mistreatment at home, the two beatings, the accidental magic (it must have been Ministry Obliviators who had covered it up), and coming to as a cat and running away. He would have to have a long talk with those people.

“It would appear that there are certain issues with young Mr. Potter’s home life that need to be remedied,” he said, with his hosts silently seething at the profundity of his understatement. “While there is undoubtedly friction within the family, and they may perhaps have been inadequately monitored, I’m sure that…a review of his living conditions there will…”

He stopped as his train of logic unravelled, and a horrifying thought came to him. If love was indeed the power Voldemort knew not, as he suspected, he may well have put the whole game in jeopardy by placing Harry in such a loveless environment. A talk would make his relatives treat him decently, but it wouldn’t cure that sickness. He would have to take more drastic—No!

No, that was something he could not do. Dumbledore sat down on the stool again, his self-confidence shaken. Had he really become the manipulative one after all these years? Just by asking the question, he knew it was a step too far. Compulsion charms and mind-altering potions to keep the boy under that roof were Gellert’s way of doing things. He would have to make a new plan to keep the boy safe, and quickly. Until then, he supposed the Grangers seemed like as good of people as any to babysit…at least for the time being…well, he could still obliviate them later, even if the spell was suddenly starting to sour on him.

He cast a mild Confundus Charm to cover up the fact that he had been staring at them for over a minute and had started talking down the wrong line of thought, then he began to speak again: “Mr. and Mrs. Granger, I do not often make mistakes, but I fear that I have made a very grave one with regards to Mr. Potter. I feel that to explain, I must start at the beginning. It is a very dark tale that I would rather not dredge up, but since it concerns his family, I suppose he deserves to hear at least a little of what happened.”

Darker than dying in a drunken car crash? The Grangers wondered. Dan looked at Harry, then at Hermione, then back at Harry. “Go on,” he said cautiously.

Dumbledore now looked at the boy and told him, in terms he hoped the five-year-old could understand, “Harry, I’m so sorry that you had to hear it this way, and from a stranger, but your parents did not die in a car crash…they were both killed by a very bad wizard.” Both of the children gasped. “That wizard’s name was Voldemort, and he had already killed many people. Your parents had fought against him, along with myself and many of their friends, and because of that, Voldemort decided to kill your entire family…even you, Harry.”

“What!” Dan and Emma exclaimed. Hermione let out a loud “Eep!” and grabbed Harry’s hand again.

“Wha—what happened, sir?” Harry whispered through a grimace of fear.

“He vanished. Even his own followers didn’t know what happened to him. Most people now believe he is dead. No one knows for sure how you survived, Harry. I can only guess that it was your mother’s love for you when she died protecting you—love is the most powerful magic there is and may well have saved you from Voldemort’s curse. It was the curse that Voldemort cast that gave you that scar.”

Harry’s eyes widened further, and he slowly traced the mark on his forehead with a finger.

“But even after Voldemort vanished, you were still in danger because his followers might have come after you for revenge. As your parents’ most trusted remaining friend, it was my duty to protect you. Your mother’s only living relatives were your aunt and cousin. I gave you to them because there are very powerful magical protections that I was able to use to keep you safe if you were living with a blood relative. As long as you lived at your aunt’s house, no one who meant you harm could enter it.”

“It didn’t work,” Dan snapped. “Certainly didn’t protect him from the people who were already there.”

“No,” Dumbledore said, hanging his head. “I confess that I never considered the possibility. From what you have said, I begin to see my error. Yet I did have someone keeping an eye on the boy…Harry, do you know Arabella Figg?”

“Mrs. Figg…? She’s mean.” Harry surprised himself by working up the courage to say that out loud. He was worried how the strange man would react, but he just raised a single eyebrow.

Dumbledore added questioning Arabella to his mental to-do list. In any case, it seemed she had failed to see the warning signs. Perhaps he should have found a squib with children to watch him. He was about to respond the Grangers’ remaining accusations when the doorbell rang.

Emma blinked her eyes slowly and said, “That’ll be the social worker.” She rose to answer it.

“Mrs. Granger,” Dumbledore called. She looked back at him. “I must urge you not to make any mention of magic to the non-magical authorities.”

Emma shot another glare at him and said, “We’ll see.”

“Yeah, like the outfit’s not a dead giveaway,” Dan said.

Dumbledore considered this and drew his wand. In a few seconds, he had transfigured his robes into a muggle business suit.

Dan flinched again. “Do you do that all the time?” he said.

“Only when it’s called for,” the old man answered as he used a quick charm to pull his long hair back into a braid, though he left his beard alone, and he moved his stool next to Dan’s chair. Hermione’s eyes widened with interest at the hair-styling spell. The suit was an improvement, but Dan thought he looked ridiculous enough with the beard.

Emma led the social worker, an older, matronly woman carrying a sheaf of papers into the room, saying “Yes, Ms. Wilkins, he’s just in here—” before she stopped short at seeing the old man’s new look.

“Mr. Granger, Miss Granger, I presume, and Mr. Potter,” she nodded to each of them in turn, then turned turned her attention to Dumbledore. “And you are…?”

He rose and shook the social worker’s hand. A quick look with legilimency (and he was starting to wonder about that spell, too), and he crafted a story that he hoped the woman would find believable. “My name is Albus Dumbledore, Madam. I was Mr. Potter’s caseworker when he was first placed. I was lucky enough to be in the neighbourhood when the office informed me he had been found, so I came here to look into the matter for myself.”

“Dumbledore?” the woman said. She’d never heard of anyone with that name before, in or out of the office, not to mention the fact that she wasn’t expecting him. “Do you have documentation of the event?” She didn’t notice the Grangers staring at how easily Dumbledore fell into the role.

He placed his hand inside his jacket and touched his fingers to the tip of his wand to conjure and appropriate-looking business card and muggle custody documents. Luckily, the woman had a clear picture in her mind of what to expect. He handed them over, and the woman looked them over sceptically, but seemed to accept them. “Very well, Mr…Dumbledore,” she said, then to all the adults, “Would it be possible to speak with the three of you for a few minutes without the children present?”

Emma turned to her daughter and said, “Hermione, could you take Harry up to your room please?” The girl clearly wanted to stay and listen, but she reluctantly nodded and led Harry up the stairs by the hand.

Dan snickered in spite of himself. When he saw his wife give him a look, he said, “You just told our daughter to take a boy into her room.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “She’s six, Dan. Now, Ms. Wilkins,” she addressed the social worker, “what’s going on, exactly?”

Ms. Wilkins checked her notes and began to speak, shooting a slight cross look at Dumbledore: “I can report to you, Mr. and Mrs. Granger that Vernon and Petunia Dursley, Harry Potter’s guardians, have been arrested for child abuse and neglect. The investigation is still ongoing, but the police found a bed set up in the cupboard under the stairs. There were some bloodstains in the cupboard, and what appear to be the words ‘Harry’s Room’ were scribbled on the wall. It appears that only two of the bedrooms in the house were being used for sleeping, even though it’s a four-bedroom house. The Dursleys’ son has been put into protective custody. Apparently, he is unhealthily overweight.” Like the Grangers, she had immediately noticed how small Harry looked.

“The Dursleys claimed to be “very concerned because their nephew ran away,” but they also expressed displeasure with having to support him. I don’t know anything definite, but I suspect that they’ll willingly give him up to the foster care system,” she concluded.

Dumbledore was silent as he took this all in. It seemed the environment he had placed the boy was indeed as bad as his memory had shown. Oh, why hadn’t he listened to Minerva four years ago? No, for the boy to go back there would to more harm than good, if he could make it happen at all. But to send Harry into the foster care system would still be disastrous. He remembered another boy who had been deeply hurt by the system many years ago. He would have to find a permanent home for the boy, one with both a loving family and a house that could be protected, and he would have to convince the muggle authorities to go along with it. He could think of a few families whom he trusted and would be glad to take him. Unfortunately, they were all in the wizarding world, but he had few options left on that point.

He was snapped out of his musings when, to his surprise, Ms. Wilkins addressed him directly: “Mr. Dumbledore, can you tell me what happened with the boy’s initial placement?”

Dumbledore sighed. Hopefully, his explanation would not cause too much trouble. “Harry Potter’s parents were…killed in a terrorist attack when he was fifteen months old. The Dursleys were his only living relatives, and I thought it would be best for him if they would take him in. I’ll admit that there were a few concerns with the placement, but there was nothing serious enough to contraindicate it. I now fear that I made a grave mistake in my actions.”

“There should have been at least one follow-up visit a year later,” Ms. Wilkins continued with an edge of suspicion. “What happened then?”

“There was.” Well, it was almost true, he thought, since Arabella had visited once or twice. “Again, there were no serious concerns raised.”

“Hmm…” She turned back to the Grangers. “And the boy claimed he had only been beaten recently?”

“By his uncle,” Dan clarified. “Apparently, he got in several fights with his cousin. But he had been in that cupboard for as long as he could remember.”

“I see.” She had been writing everything down on her notepad as they talked and going over a checklist. “Now, Harry Potter was reported missing by Vernon Dursley on the evening of Friday, 13 September. Did he give any indication of where he’s been for the past seven weeks?”

“He claimed he’s been living on the streets,” Emma said. Seeing him in cat form made that make a lot more sense, but she realised that Dumbledore was right—she could never get away with saying that. “I’m surprised he looks that good after this much time. He didn’t exactly say it, but I think he’s been eating out of rubbish bins.” Or catching mice? she wondered, suppressing a shudder at the thought.

“He should be checked out by a doctor immediately,” Ms. Wilkins ordered. “He’s lucky he didn’t freeze to death with the nights we’ve been having. You two are dentists?” They nodded. “He’ll need his teeth checked, and I’ll bet he’s never been to an eye doctor, either…Not that you need to have any further involvement, of course, I was going to take him to a group home this afternoon so he can get checked over on Monday.”

Dan and Emma shared a long, questioning look, but Dumbledore didn’t notice, as he chose that moment to spring into action. “Ms. Wilkins,” he said, “after what’s happened, I think it would be best for the boy to find him a permanent placement quickly. I do have a couple of leads on that front—more distant acquaintances of his parents—and I can assure you they will be thoroughly vetted this time.”

The woman eyed him with suspicion. This wasn’t going to be easy. “If you file the appropriate paperwork, I will certainly take your recommendations under advisement, Mr. Dumbledore,” she said.

Ms. Wilkins asked a few more questions about how the Grangers met Harry that morning, “just for the official report,” which they handled surprisingly well, and about what Harry had told them, before asking them to call the kids back down.

“I’ll go get them,” Emma said before anyone else could say anything.

The door to Hermione’s room was open, though neither child noticed when Emma walked in. To her surprise, Hermione and Harry were engaged in a simple board game rather than reading books, although she immediately had to wonder if Harry could even read. On the other hand, could he even play board games? Hermione was clearly wiping the proverbial floor with him.

“Kids…” They both looked up at her. “Ms. Wilkins is done talking to us, and now she wants to talk to Harry. She probably have a few questions for you, too, Hermione.” She leaned down to get closer to Harry’s face. “Harry, the woman downstairs is going to ask you some questions about how your relatives treated you and about your time living outside. She might want to talk to you alone, but it’s okay. She’s not going to hurt you. Just tell the truth about your relatives. You won’t have to go back to them anytime soon, and probably not at all, so you can tell her everything about them…but…but don’t tell her about magic or about being a cat because…well, she won’t believe you. We’re going to talk about that some more, but it’ll be later, with Mr. Dumbledore. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered a little too easily. She remembered that he had mentioned something about having to act “normal” with his relatives.

With a nod, Emma escorted the children back downstairs.

Ms. Wilkins questioned Hermione first, asking her about her encounter with Harry that morning, and what they had talked about since. She answered these questions quite sensibly under the watchful eyes of her parents. The woman then asked Harry just a couple of questions before asking him to join her in the kitchen.

Dan and Emma took that as their cue, nodded to each other, and stood up. “Harry, Mr. Granger and I are going upstairs to talk on our own,” Emma said, her eyes darting toward Dumbledore, who now sat quietly reading a magazine. “When you’re done, Ms. Wilkins can call up the stairs for us if we’re not back, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Come along, Hermione,” she added, not wanting to leave her daughter alone with the old man. The Grangers climbed the stairs, but split off to their separate bedrooms.

Albus Dumbledore sat quietly, definitely not reading the magazine in his hands. He kept going over what had happened over the past couple of hours in his mind. He was certainly relieved to find the boy safe, but horrified at the circumstances that had brought him here, and amazed at the determination of the Grangers to help him, even after they were thrown headfirst into the deep end of the magical world. Looking ahead, he would have to report that he had found the boy—and how he dreaded facing Minerva when he returned to school—and find a new home for him, probably doing some work to expedite the process on the muggle side.

He only half-listened to the eavesdropping charm he had silently cast on Harry. That wasn’t technically improper, since he was the boy’s magical guardian, although he would be sure to keep that to himself if the matter came up. Ms. Wilkins was going in detail through all of the incidents of abuse that Harry could remember. He answered with surprising calm, and the social worker skillfully redirected him whenever he seemed on the verge of breaking down. The questioning went on for quite a while, and the Grangers came back downstairs before it was over, though they looked oddly subdued.

Finally, it was finished, and Ms. Wilkins came out of the kitchen with a visibly shaken Harry, who sat down next to Hermione on the sofa and shivered slightly. The woman stood in the middle of the room and addressed the group. “Mr. and Mrs. Granger, I want to thank you for reporting this to us today. I know you’ve done Harry here a great service. What’s going to happen now is that I’ll take him to a group home for the weekend pending a longer-term placement. In the unlikely event that his relatives challenge the loss of their custody rights, you may be called upon as witnesses, and in the much more likely event that they go to trial, you may be called in for that as well. Mr. Dumbledore, could you mail your paperwork on Harry to me? I’ll contact you if I need a formal statement from you.”

Dumbledore nodded, relieved that she didn’t start asking questions he couldn’t answer. This at least gave him time to put together something realistic for the muggle authorities.

“Good. Now, if there’s nothing else, we’ll take our leave of you. Thank you for your time.”

“Actually, Ms. Wilkins,” Emma cut her off, “we could take Harry in here until Monday.”

The woman turned back to her in surprise. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mrs. Granger,” she said, “but even for a short-term placement, you need to be licensed.”

“Oh, but we are licensed,” Dan said as he stood and stepped over to the desk and started filing through papers. “We got licensed a couple years ago, but nothing ever came of it. It should still be good…ah, here it is.” He handed the papers over.

Ms. Wilkins looked them over and saw that the foster care license was, indeed, up to date. She was pleasantly surprised by this turn of events. This would certainly make her day one step easier, and it would probably be better for the boy, too. She opened her own sheaf of papers and pulled out the correct form. She quickly filled it out with Harry’s name and information. “That’s very generous of you,” she said, handing over the form. “If you’re both sure, just sign here.” When she took the form back, she turned to Harry and said, “Harry, you’ll be staying with Mr. and Mrs. Granger for the weekend. I’ll visit you on Monday, and we’ll figure out where you’re going to go then.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said, with a voice that showed neither happiness nor disappointment. He was in a daze by now from all of the strange revelations and all of the questions about his aunt and uncle. He was certainly happy about not having to go back there and about being able to stay with what seemed to be very nice people, but he was far too used to hiding his happiness for fear that it would cause trouble.

Turning to the Grangers one last time, Ms. Wilkins said, “Thank you very much. And do try to clean the boy up, find him some decent clothes, and get him a hot meal. I don’t think he’s had any of those things in a long time. Good afternoon.”

As soon as the woman left, Dumbledore drew his wand and reverted his clothes back to their “normal” appearance.

Emma’s mouth hung open for a few seconds as she vacillated between several questions. She settled on, “Why on earth do you dress like that Mr. Dumbledore?” Her daughter giggled.

Looking slightly miffed, the old man answered, “I’ve always thought bright colours looked rather stylish.”

Emma just shook her head at the comment, while Dan took Dumbledore to task: “I’m sure you can guess that we still have a lot of questions, and not just about Harry, but right now, it looks like we have some shopping to do. Is there any chance you could come back later, say in two or three hours?”

Dumbledore was reluctant to involve a muggle family deeper in the magical world so long before their own daughter would be going to Hogwarts, but they were taking Harry in for the weekend—and probably a good thing for him at that, he thought as well. He could report back to the castle and return here later with no trouble. “Mr. Granger,” he said with a somewhat forced smile, “for Harry Potter, I will happily clear my schedule. I will report to the other witches and wizards who are searching for Harry that he has been found and return here in three hours’ time.”

“Will we be approached by anyone else?” Dan asked.

“I will instruct them not to do so. Harry, I am very glad to find you safe here. We will speak again later. Good afternoon.” With a loud crack, Albus Dumbledore vanished into thin air.

“Whoa!” Dan and Emma exclaimed.

“You don’t think he’s going to just pop back here…right here?” Emma said.

“If he does, I’ll have to teach him some manners. It was bad enough just showing up like that unannounced. Come on, we’ve got three hours. Let’s get Harry cleaned up.”

Albus apparated to the gates of Hogwarts and quickly made his way into the castle and up to his office, being sure to send for Minerva along the way. It was probably best to get this out of the way immediately.

Minerva McGonagall arrived in the Headmaster’s Office a few minutes later, and she was most disturbed by the look on his face. It was that weary and dejected look that always meant that something had gone horribly wrong. A dozen frightening scenarios flashed through her mind before she could even get a word out. “Albus, what’s wrong?” she exclaimed. “Did you find the boy? Is he alright?”

Albus looked up to face her, but did not rise from his seat. “Minerva, I did, indeed, find Harry Potter, and he is, for the moment, safe. But I am afraid that I owe you a great apology.”

“For what, Albus,” she said, more relieved at the news than anything else.

“I should have listened to you four years ago. You were entirely correct. Harry should never have been left with his aunt and uncle.”

Her relief turned to anger as she wheeled on the Headmaster, drawing herself to her full height and staring over the rims of her spectacles at him. “And you’re just figuring this out now? It should have been plain to see on that very night. What did those horrid people do to the boy?”

“Nothing irreversible, I believe, but we are immensely fortunate that he escaped when he did. For a muggle family, I was most shocked at how much they treated young Harry like a house-elf.”

“House elf? Escaped?” Minerva finally sat down. “Albus, I think you had better explain the whole story.”

As Albus explained how the muggles had treated their own nephew, Minerva’s blood began to boil. She actually caught herself growling. She had half a mind to fly down to Little Whinging and hex them herself until she was placated by the news that they had been arrested by the muggle authorities.

“Well, it seems you have well and truly blundered on this one, Albus. You’re very lucky that your mistake is being fixed. But none of this explains why you couldn’t find the boy for seven weeks.”

Inexplicably, a small smile crossed the Headmaster’s face, and the twinkle returned to his eyes. “Ah, now that is the interesting part,” he said. “I was quite baffled by how he could disappear and reappear like that, but it seems I overlooked a certain method of hiding when I cast the tracking charm.”

“What method of hiding? Where has the boy been?”

“It would appear that Harry Potter has spent the past seven weeks roaming the streets of England…as a cat.”

“A cat!”

“I saw him transform with my own eyes, Minerva. A black kitten with green eyes, white feet, and a white, lightning bolt-shaped mark on his head. He is an animagus already, and he apparently achieved this purely by accidental magic. It is how he escaped from his uncle’s home.”

Minerva was speechless. She considered what this might mean—everything she knew about the animagus transformation—but nothing even hinted at such a strong a childhood or inborn aptitude for it. “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” she concluded. “It should be impossible.”

“So should surviving the killing curse,” Albus said solemnly. Could this be the power Voldemort knows not? he wondered. Could I have been wrong about that as well? Not for the first time, nor the last, he considered confiding the prophecy to Minerva, but he again decided against it. The fewer people who knew that tidbit, the better. “I am beginning to suspect that normal concepts of what is possible do not apply to Harry Potter. But I do not think this news should be mentioned to anyone. Even Severus, I think, has no particular need to know about it.”

Minerva nodded at that. She had never told Severus or his rivals that she knew about that little incident in their sixth year or about the Marauders’ animagus abilities, and she knew this was the kind of news Severus would not take well.

“Harry reappeared this morning because he happened upon a muggle-born witch about his age and apparently untransformed to talk to her,” he continued. “I met him with her family. He claimed he could smell her magic as well as mine when I met him. Do you know anything about that?”

Now that was something she could answer. “Of course. Cats are very good at sensing magic. I believe they are better at it than any other non-magical animal because all cats have at least a little kneazle blood in them. It’s why they are such popular familiars. It is a very useful ability to have, although I have rarely had need of it.”

“Ah, that solves one puzzle, then. I will, of course, modify my tracking charm to follow the boy in his cat form.”

Minerva had once questioned putting a second tracking charm on the boy in addition to the Ministry Trace, but the events of the past two months had convinced her of its necessity. Despite his mistakes, Albus usually knew what he was doing. “What will happen to the boy now?” she asked.

“The muggle social worker wished to move Harry into foster care, which I cannot allow. While it would be a great improvement, I fear it will not be enough to repair the damage. The boy will need a permanent family, and soon—most likely a wizarding family so that we can be certain he will be cared for properly. Andromeda Tonks is his second cousin, and she and her husband would probably be willing to take him in. Failing that, perhaps the Diggorys or the Weasleys would be interested.”

Harry Potter in the chaos that was the Weasley household? Now that would be…interesting.

“I was lucky enough that the muggle family who found him was willing to keep him for the weekend. I will be speaking to them further in a couple of hours. Ah, once the boy is placed with a family, Minerva, I can arrange for you to meet with him about him animagus ability.”

“Yes…thank you, Albus. I think that would be most helpful.” And it would give her a good way to keep an eye on the boy herself from now on.

“Very good, Minerva, that is all I require of you for now. I must go inform Severus that the boy has been found.”

“Of course.” As she left, she wondered whether the potions master would be more relieved or annoyed at the news.

Harry’s afternoon was a whirlwind tour of new experiences. Mrs. Granger started by giving him a bath. He was uncomfortable with her washing him apart from his time as a cat—while Aunt Petunia had done it until he was old enough, she was never gentle about it—but Emma knew that a boy his age should not be left in the bath alone. After that, they piled in the car and went to the store. Harry had barely even seen the inside of a department store before, and he had certainly never had anyone buy him clothes, but they didn’t leave until they had three complete sets of clothes for him and a new pair of trainers. Back at their house, he changed out of Dudley’s oversize castoffs and was amazed at how comfortable his new outfit was now that he was wearing something his size.

The bewilderment continued as the Grangers allowed him to sit on the sofa and watch television with them until Mr. Dumbledore returned. He kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, but it never did. The Grangers really did seem to be nice people—not just nice like Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were to Dudley, but nice in a way that he had never personally seen and barely heard about from his limited exposure to people outside his family. It would take him quite some time before he understood that it was simply because they were a normal family—more “normal,” in fact, than the oh-so-proud Dursleys. For now, he was too busy trying to process all of the changes in his life. He was almost tempted to change back into a cat so things would be simpler—almost. The warm house was definitely better on that point.

Exactly three hours after Albus Dumbledore had vanished from their living room, the doorbell rang. Dan rose to answer it, while Emma picked up the notebook that she had been writing questions in all afternoon.

“Thank you for coming back, Mr. Dumbledore,” Dan said coolly when he saw their visitor return in the same absurd robes.

“Of course, Mr. Granger. How is young Harry doing?”

“Much better now that he’s cleaned up and in some proper clothes. But if you don’t mind, my wife and I would like to speak with you privately before you talk to him.”

Dumbledore suppressed a sigh. It was clear that the Grangers weren’t about to give him any slack. Oh well, it was too late to go back now, and besides, they were supposed to be on the same side here. He nodded to them and let them lead the way.

Emma told the children to go upstairs again, something that Hermione was starting to get annoyed with, but instead of occupying the living room, they escorted Dumbledore to the kitchen. He watched as they took their seats: the two of them sitting opposite him across the kitchen table, clearly trying to assert themselves in the position of power. He also noticed that Emma had a muggle notebook open with a substantial list of questions written down one page.

“Alright, first things first,” Dan said, leaving no doubt that there would be a lot more ‘things’ to come. “What are your intentions towards Harry?” Emma suppressed a chuckle at this, but refrained from pointing out that he was supposed to ask that about Hermione. “You said you had some ideas about where to put him. You’ll forgive us if we don’t trust your judgement just yet.”

“That’s quite understandable.” Dumbledore wasn’t use to being put in the position of being interrogated, but today had been quite the humbling experience. “I can tell you that I wish to place Harry with a wizarding family. The several families I have in mind for consideration are friends and acquaintances of mine, with children of their own who are treated well, and any one of them would be glad to take Harry.”

“That’s all well and good that they’re your friends. But we’ve seen how wrong you’ve been before. How certain are you that they would do well with an adopted child?”

“Mr. Granger, I can assure you that almost any wizarding family in the country would jump at the chance to adopt Harry, and if anything, they would probably spoil him.”

“What makes you so sure of that?” Emma said.

“Because Harry Potter is quite possibly the most famous person in all of magical Britain.” Dumbledore himself being the other contended, but that was irrelevant here.

Dan and Emma blinked a couple times at that, not sure how to respond. “Famous…? How’s that?”

“In our world, Harry is hailed as the Boy-Who-Lived. He is considered a hero for defeating Voldemort, even though he was not the one who did it. There are Harry Potter dolls sold in wizarding stores, and a rather successful children’s book series written about him, which of course are complete fabrications.”

“Are you having one over on us?” Dan said. “The boy’s five. According to you, he hasn’t been seen in ‘your world’ since he was one. Are wizards really that messed up, or is this some kind of insane prank.”

“I wish it were, Mr. Granger,” Dumbledore said with a sigh. “I’m afraid it was inevitable given the euphoria caused by the end of the war. I had hoped that having the boy raised in the muggle world, that is, the non-magical world, would keep him grounded. Unfortunately, that plan has backfired.”

“So now you send him off with no real support into a world where he’s already famous that he also knows nothing about?”

“As I said, there are families in our world whom I trust to handle young Harry appropriately. In fact, he has a second cousin on his father’s side who would be quite suitable. And in the magical world, I will be able to check on the boy regularly to ensure he is not having any trouble adjusting.”

“Like you could and should have been doing for him already?” Emma shot back.

He dropped his gaze, saying, “I admit that I have been leaving too much to chance. Unfortunately, the Dursleys were the only serious non-magical option. There are few families who know of us outside our world.”

Both Grangers gave the old man a stern look, but Emma said, “Fair enough…for now.”

Her husband took up the next question: “Now, if our daughter is going to be a part of your magical world someday—which we are still trying to wrap our heads around—then we want to know more about it. Tell us about this V…Vol…”

“Voldemort?”

“Yes, the terrorist. He sounded like a pretty bad guy. Is he still a threat.”

“I assure you that Voldemort is nothing to be concerned about.”

“Please don’t patronise us, Mr. Dumbledore,” Dan said. “You said most people believe he’s dead. I don’t think you believe that.”

He should have known the evasive approach wouldn’t work with this pair. Muggle healers were very well-educated and trained to be inquisitive. “No,” he answered, his face grim. “Voldemort has not been seen since that night, but I believe that what happened four years ago only weakened him. It must have nearly killed him, and it certainly permanently incapacitated him, or he would have been seen afterwards, but even so, there are dark rituals by which he could return to his former power.”

Dan took the next obvious step, “And you believe that if he does, he’ll come after Harry for revenge?”

“I am certain of it. The one thing Voldemort could never tolerate was being bested.” It was true enough, if not complete.

“But a five-year-old boy?” Emma said.

“Age matters nothing to him, I’m afraid. He attacked a one-year-old child for revenge and to prevent revenge from one day being taken again himself. He will not tolerate loose ends. It is simply not in his nature. But that is if he finds a way to return, which could take years or longer, if it happens at all.”

They didn’t look persuaded by his words. “And his followers that you mentioned? You said they wanted revenge, too?”

“Yes, though the threat from them is less, now. Most of them were captured and sent to Azkaban Prison. Unfortunately, there are those who escaped by bribes and claiming to be under mind-control spells who are still at large. But with no attacks in four years, I suspect they do not wish to risk their political power on the chance that their Master might someday return.”

“Political power? You mean there are known terrorists in your government!” Dan yelled. “How the hell can you allow that?” He started to rise from the table, but his wife put a hand on his arm to calm him down, though, she was furiously taking notes on these latest revelations.

Dumbledore shuddered inwardly at the (sadly true) accusation. After so many years in the Wizengamot, he sometimes forgot how different wizarding and muggle politics were. “Mr. and Mrs. Granger, I do not wish to burden your family with the past—”

“It doesn’t sound like the past to me,” Emma interrupted, “and we’re going to learn about it sooner or later. You can’t stop Hermione from reading history books.”

“You can’t stop Hermione from reading any books,” Dan added.

“This is apparently our world, too, whether we like it or not,” Emma continued. “Isn’t it better if we know now?”

“Very well,” the old man said solemnly. He supposed they would have to learn it sooner or later. “Please understand that what you call terrorism, to us was considered a civil war.” Both Grangers’ eyebrows shot up at that, but they said nothing. “There is a small, but vocal minority in our society who believe that purity of magical blood is of paramount importance. In their estimation, people descended from old magical families are superior to muggle-born witches and wizards…like your daughter…and to a lesser degree superior to half-bloods—people who have only one parent with magical heritage. Even so, both Harry and I are half-bloods, and (if his unique ability is any indication) we are both very competent wizards, if I do say so. And beyond that, educational records show that pureblood wizards are no more competent than any others. The prejudice persists, however, because those who hold it can claim to be purebloods themselves, descended from old, wealthy, and politically influential magical families.”

Emma kept jotting down notes, but they still didn’t interrupt.

“In the 1960s, a fanatical wizard who styled himself ‘Lord Voldemort’ began recruiting followers from among the pureblood supremacists. Voldemort believed that muggle-born witches and wizards should not only be treated as inferior, but actually killed.” As children of parents who had lived through World War II, Dan and Emma shuddered at that statement. “His followers were called Death Eaters, and among them—though they deny it in the official record—were at least two of the wealthiest of the fifty lords and ladies of the Wizengamot—our Parliament—and a number of other Ministry officials. Voldemort was known to be involved with dark magic, but he was not considered a serious threat at the time, which allowed him to build up his forces.

“In 1970, however, the Death Eaters began overtly attacking various targets they opposed, such as businesses run by muggle-borns. They continued recruiting, and the violence spread. They attacked purebloods who associated too closely with muggle-borns, whom they condemned as “blood traitors,” and they also attacked muggle targets. Most of the recorded terrorist attacks in the island of Britain from 1970 to 1981 were actually Death Eater-initiated. The Death Eaters wore masks to conceal their identities, so with many accusations flying after the war and and so little proof, the more influential individuals sadly escaped prosecution afterwards. The condition of our government at the time did not help.”

“What do you mean?” Dan said.

“By 1980, the situation had descended into outright civil war. At his height, Voldmort had amassed an army of hundreds and launched into a reign of terror that threatened the Ministry of Magic itself and threatened to spill over onto the Continent.”

“Wait a minute, and army of a few hundred threatened your government?” Dan snapped out of his wide-eyed horror. “Just how many wizards are there?”

“The population of magical Britain is a little less than ten thousand.”

Dan had to reevaluate his vision of the magical world. If ten thousand wizards were a country, then there were probably only about a million of them in the world. And in a nation that small, a police force and a mid-size terrorist group were armies. Counter-terrorism efforts were a civil war. A few hundred bad actors were an existential threat. And one magical school for the whole of the Britain Isles, no matter how necessary the arrangement, gave him an uneasy feeling of putting all of one’s eggs in the same basket.

“So your nation was on the verge of being taken over…” He put the pieces together, hands clenching into firsts as he realised Hermione had already been born at that point. “And a genocide of…muggle-borns would have been the next step…but then Voldemort tried to kill Harry and was defeated. That’s how bad it was?”

“Yes, Mr. Granger, I’m afraid that’s exactly how bad it was.”

“And if he comes back?” Emma asked in a whisper.

“Through his philosophy, even if not overtly, he is still powerful and influential. Unfortunately, the same thing is likely to happen again unless he is stopped quickly.”

“Could we escape him, then? Flee the country? Or do all wizards have the same problems?” Dan said quickly.

“Unless Magical Britain should fall, yes, most other countries will be safe. With the exception of Magical Scandinavia, no other First World countries have been under the influence of dark rulers for many years. You and your family could escape to almost anywhere you please.”

Emma then asked the final question on the matter, the one she had hoped she wouldn’t have to: “But Harry can’t?”

Dumbledore’s breath caught in his throat as he considered the possible implications of her asking that question. Could they be considering—? he thought. It would be a most fortunate break for him. Unfortunately, the answer would probably render it moot. “No,” he answered honestly. “As I said, Voldemort cannot accept defeat. If he returns, he will pursue Harry Potter to the ends of the earth.”

The questions continued for a long time afterwards. There were a lot about Hogwarts and the alternatives to Hogwarts, since it seemed Hermione would need some kind of magical education. This led to even more questions about things like the glaring gaps in muggle courses in Hogwarts’s curriculum and the reasons why muggle-borns weren’t normally contacted until age eleven. The Grangers also asked how the magical world was set up, and Dumbledore explained the statute of secrecy to them at length, among other things, and they grudgingly admitted that it was probably a good idea. Finally, they had quite a few questions about what magic could do, which Dumbledore could tell were subtle ways of asking just what magic was good for aside from being murdered by a maniac.

The fact that with her magical constitution and magical medicine, Hermione could possibly live to a hundred and fifty was a definite plus, but they clearly weren’t sold on what country she should live out those years in. By the end of the conversation, Emma had pages and pages of notes, and Dumbledore’s voice was becoming hoarse. It was approaching dinner time.

“Mr. Dumbledore, thank you for your patience and honesty,” Dan concluded when they rose from the table, offering his hand to shake for the first time. “We really appreciate you being so forthwith with us.”

Dumbledore shook both Grangers’ hands. He was pleased that he seemed to have brought them around on magic in general despite having to tell them so many of the uncomfortable truths of the wizarding world. Even parents of school-aged muggle-borns rarely learnt as much, or reacted as well. It made him wonder again about their own intentions regarding Harry. It was tempting—oh so tempting—to exert a little influence of his own, but he forced himself to let them make any such decision on their own.

“I’m glad that we could discuss these matters civilly,” he replied. “Now, I really must speak with Harry, but given the time, I will endeavour to keep the questions short. You may certainly join us if you wish.”

“I think we will at that.” Dan was still keeping the old man on a short leash.

The moved back to the living room, and Emma called the kids downstairs. She noted that Harry always seemed to be first when she called, being very quick to obey orders.

“How was your afternoon, you two?” she asked.

Hermione certainly didn’t look as happy as she had hoped about having another child her age in the house, but her concerns were clarified when her daughter said, “Harry’s not very good at games, Mummy.”

Harry dropped his head and mumbled something about his cousin always wanting to win.

“Um, well that’s okay, honey. He can learn and get better. Come along now. Mr. Dumbledore wants to talk to you, Harry.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Harry sat very still on the sofa with his hands clasped in front of him. By now, Dan and Emma noticed his slight squint and hoped he would be able to get to an eye doctor soon.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said, putting on his best grandfatherly face, “I want to apologise to you for what you have suffered for the past four years. I was wrong to leave you with your aunt and uncle, and I will do as much as I can to fix it. I hope that, in time, you can forgive me for my error.”

Harry stared at the old man, unblinking. Forgiveness, in any direction, was not something that was well-taught in the Dursley household. More so than at any other point that day, Harry knew neither what he wanted to say in response, nor what he was “supposed” to say. Luckily, Dumbledore just glossed over the point and moved on.

“On Monday, I am going to try to find a family to take care of you. They will probably be a magical family. I promise you that they will treat you well and will be nothing at all like your relatives.”

Harry lowered his head and whispered, “Thank you, sir.”

“If you are comfortable talking about it, I would like to know what happened when you escaped from your uncle’s house.”

Harry’s head snapped back up, and he flinched in that strange way of his, turning his body away while keeping his eyes locked on Dumbledore. The behaviour seemed familiar to the Headmaster, but he couldn’t quite place it. He had certainly never seen James or Lily do that.

Dumbledore glanced away for a second in thought, and Harry seemed to relax. He then began to tell his tale, though he half mumbled as he spoke. At Dumbledore’s prompting, he explained the strange flickering of the lights and the loud bang that distracted his family, along with how he ran out the door before he fully realised that he had changed. He then explained how he had found food and water and warm places to sleep outside.

For Dumbledore, the pieces began to fall into place. He would have to enquire with the Obliviators to get the rest of the story, but it was clear that Harry had performed an impressive feat of accidental magic on top of unlocking his animagus ability. He was amazed by the boy’s resourcefulness in surviving at that age and wondered how much of it was animal instinct. He would have to ask Minerva after the matter.

Hermione sat by Harry’s side for most of the story. When he flinched, she tried to hold his hand, but he pulled away this time. However he did allow her to rub the back of his hand, since it was close enough to petting, like the people who put out food would sometimes do. When he mentioned catching mice for food, though, Hermione turned green and got up to sit with her mother.

When Harry finished his story with his encounter with Hermione that morning, Emma said the question that everybody was thinking: “So if you didn’t know what happened, how did you find him?”

Dumbledore frowned. He had hoped to avoid this issue, but he felt he needed to be truthful. “I have certain ways of tracking Harry’s movements using magic,” he explained. “This is merely for his safety in case something should happen. However, these spells apparently did not follow him in cat form. But that is easy enough to fix…” Well, nothing else for it. “Harry, if you be so kind as to change back into a cat, I would like to correct the spells. I assure you that they are only there so that I can help you if you are taken somewhere you are not supposed to be.” Well, that’s what his tracking charm was for.

Dan and Emma considered stopping him, but if the spells were there already, there was not much they could say. From their talk, it sounded like this kind of tracking was not uncommon.

Harry stared at the old man again, then lowered his head. “Yes, sir,” he whispered. He seemed to concentrate for a moment, then his body shrunk down, and there was a black and white kitten sitting there on the couch.

Dumbledore drew his wand and muttered a lengthy incantation. The Grangers couldn’t interpret it clearly, but they caught enough Latin forms to guess the etymology. When he finished, and blue aura surrounded the kitten for a moment, then vanished.

“There, it’s done.”

The kitten kept sitting there, seemingly unconcerned.

“Well…alright, then,” Dumbledore said. He rose to his feet, subtly stretching his legs after such a long day. “I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. and Mrs. Granger. Thank you for your cooperation today. I will return on Monday to meet Ms. Wilkins and the boy concerning his placement. I reiterate that the magical world must be kept a secret from your non-magical friends and associates. And I would like to keep Harry’s animagus ability particularly confidential because it is so…unusual, should you be approached by anyone else from the magical world.”

“Of course,” Dan said. “We understand.”

“Mr. Dumbledore,” Emma added, “we’ve had a lot going on today, and we’ll need some time to process it…but could you possibly come back tomorrow afternoon—um, in case we have more questions?” Dan looked a little annoyed by the prospect, but said nothing.

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow and wondered just what kind of questions they might be that they would want to speak again so quickly, but he tried to answer casually: “Since you’ve been so generous in caring for the boy this weekend, I think I could arrange another visit tomorrow, say, at one o’clock, perhaps?”

“That would be excellent. Thank you.”

“Good. Until then…” Dumbledore once again departed with a loud crack.

“Do they all do that?” Dan wondered.

After Dumbledore vanished, Hermione rose from her seat and sat down beside Harry again. The kitten hadn’t bothered yet to change back into a boy. Hermione watched him for a moment, then reached out and began scratching him behind his ears.

“Hermione!” her mother exclaimed. Something about the action disturbed her. That kitten was still a boy, wasn’t he? It didn’t seem right to just treat him like a cat.

The kitten tensed up under Hermione’s fingers, but after a few moments, he actually seemed to relax. It was only when she tried to hold him with both hands that he gave a meow and slipped away off the sofa.

Emma felt that she couldn’t handle an intelligent cat running around the house on top of everything else, so she tried to draw the boy back out over dinner. “Harry, I’m going to order some pizza for dinner,” she said. “Would you mind…erm, changing back into a person so you can tell me what you want on it?”

“Not mice!” Hermione yelled. Harry stopped in front of Emma’s feet and untransformed, but didn’t speak.

“No, not mice,” Emma said. “Do you like anchovies, Harry?”

“Eww!” her daughter objected.

When he apologetically explained that he hadn’t had pizza before, Emma went with just pepperoni.

Harry Potter lay in the double bed in the guest bedroom of the Granger household and wondered again how he had got here. It seemed impossibly luxurious just having room to stretch out all the way and actually a little too warm after weeks sleeping outside and years before that with only a threadbare blanket. It was a wonderful place to sleep, but it still made him uncomfortable. There was something profoundly wrong with the fact that he was being treated better by the Grangers, whom he had just met, than by his own family, even though he was too young to fully understand why. He went over it in his mind, how they had invited him to eat with them, held him when he cried, bought him clothes, let him watch the television, and finally Mrs. Granger actually tucked him into bed.

It had been the best day of his life, except that it didn’t make one bit of sense to the confused five-year-old. He felt like being able to turn into a cat was the most normal thing that had happened that day, and even he could tell it was the one part the Grangers really couldn’t handle, although they did a much better job of it than his relatives ever would have. And then there was Mr. Dumbledore. The old man was strange, but at least he seemed to know what was going on. Learning the truth about his parents was a shock, but magic and bad guys, however horrifying, he could understand.

The news that he wouldn’t have to go back to his aunt and uncle hadn’t really sunk in yet. He’d never had much reason to trust anyone about something like that, and he didn’t want to hold out much hope. That he had even come this far still made him uncomfortable. He couldn’t even seem to sleep in this great bed. Finally, he did something that he had never done before as a human: he rolled over to sleep on his stomach. Instantly, he felt more comfortable—more protected, somehow. Harry drifted off to sleep hoping, as he did every night now, that he wouldn’t wake up in his cupboard in the morning, except this time, he also found himself hoping he wouldn’t wake up curled up out in the cold again either.

While Hermione and Harry were both in bed, Dan and Emma were certainly not sleeping. By unspoken agreement, they were sitting at the kitchen table, since the discussion was a particularly serious one, adding in a late-night cup of tea for good measure.

“What do you think of all this, Dan?” Emma started.

“What part? Our daughter has magical powers, she makes friends with a boy who can turn into a cat, some old goat in a ridiculous outfit shows up on our doorstep, and we apparently get dragged into some stupid race-based war like in some Third World country, not to mention the part where the bad guys still have their own political party.”

“Yes, I know it’s all pretty crazy. But what about Harry?”

Dan sighed and looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t know. For a while, there, I thought we could help him, but…”

“Well, we always have wanted another child.”

“Yeah, we wanted another child who wasn’t a target for terrorists.”

Emma bit her lip and considered letting the matter drop, but she pressed on. “So what do you think we should do?”

“The smart thing to do would be to let Dumbledore take care of Harry, keep our distance, and flee the country at the first sign of trouble.”

“But…?”

Dan set his teacup down with a clatter. “Emma, I’m sorry, but why are we even considering this? Why do we even need to consider this?”

“I—I know he regrets his mistake, but do you really trust Dumbledore to put Harry with a good family?”

He shook his head without hesitation. “Not really, no. Better, sure, but I don’t think I could trust him on good, yet.”

“Exactly. And there is that issue of him being famous in the magical world.”

“But, Emma, it’s not our problem.” He held up a hand. “I’m not just dismissing it. This is serious danger we’re talking about that we don’t even really understand yet. I have to worry about keeping you and Hermione safe first. That boy is not our problem, and this is not our war.”

“I know. I’m worried about our daughter, too, but if it comes to it, it will be her war. Even if we take her overseas, this is still her home, and if she goes to that…Hogwarts school, it’ll be her friends who get caught up in it.”

“All the more reason to get out while the getting’s good.”

“That’s all well and good for us, but Harry’s doesn’t have that option.”

“And he won’t if he stays with us, either.” Dan stopped and took a deep breath. He didn’t want to lose his temper with his wife, especially this late. “I’m just saying, how does it help anyone if we’re stuck here with him?”

Emma rested her forehead on her hand. “If it comes to that, I’ll admit it probably doesn’t,” she said. She met her husband’s eyes again. “But right now, Harry is just a little boy who’s been badly hurt, who needs help, and who doesn’t have anyone in his life who can be trusted to give it to him. Plus, on top of that, Hermione’s finally found a friend, which you have to admit is something she desperately needs. And I’ll bet she’s his first friend, too.”

A light went on in Dan’s mind, and he gave his wife a weak smile. “My God, you’re really taken with this boy, aren’t you?”

Emma blushed. Pressing her lips together, she answered, “I suppose I am—motherly instinct kicking in and all that…but, Dan, how many times have we said in the past couple of years that we were going to adopt, and then it never happens?”

“And we still can, Emma, but it doesn’t have to be Harry.”

“But it’s more than just that. I don’t know…” She took a deep breath and tried to understand her feelings. “You know, my mother always told me, sometimes you have to make a choice between doing what’s right and doing what’s easy. And I’ve just got this feeling that adopting Harry is the right thing to do.”

A scowl crossed Dan’s face. “Emma, are you sure that Dumbledore didn’t, you know, do something to you?”

“I…I doubt it. Else why didn’t he do the same thing to you? I don’t know where this coming from, but…I still think it’s right.”

Her husband just stared at her, amazed at her sudden conviction. He could see in her eyes how strongly she felt about this. And he did have to admit she was right about Dumbledore’s judgement—or lack thereof.

“You know, we really owe Harry for this,” she added.

“What do you mean?”

“If he hadn’t shown up today, Hermione would have walked into that world blind six years from now, and maybe never have been told the full story. At least now she’ll be more prepared if something does happen.”

Well, there was that. “You realise you’re talking about joining a war, though, don’t you—or a counter-terror force, anyway?” Dan pressed her.

“I know.”

“Against people who can use magic. All we have is a shotgun.”

“I know. Don’t think I haven’t thought of that; I almost feel like I’ve lost my mind myself. But we don’t even know if there’ll be a war. And if there is, it might not be until the kids are grown. We do know that Harry needs a family, and no matter what he says, I don’t trust that Mr. Dumbledore to find one for him who can really help him.”

“And you think we can? We barely know the first thing about his world.”

“We can better than his abusive relatives or a bunch of magical fans, Dan. That much is obvious.”

Dan rested his head on his hands as he tried to collect his thoughts. As adamant as his wife was being, there were few places he could fault her logic. They had wanted another child,  and that wasn’t likely to happen for Emma. Heck, he’d even liked Harry himself until he found out how much trouble the boy was in. He wasn’t keen to abandon the boy by any means, but the story of that Voldemort lunatic was far more than he wanted to take. And yet, as much as he wanted to assure himself that Dumbledore had things under control with Harry, he couldn’t make himself believe it. He hated to admit it, but the right thing was to at least keep the boy close—certainly to let him be friends with Hermione if they wanted. Emma was right about that, too. A friend was something both children needed. He steeled himself and looked up again.

“So what do you think?” she asked.

“I…I think it’s late. I think we need to sleep on it…Look, I’m not going to just say no. But I don’t want to even consider it until we know something about how we can stay safe.”

“Of course not. I wouldn’t either. That’s why I wanted to talk to Mr. Dumbledore.”

“Yes, of course…” It was only then that Dan understood how many steps ahead of him his wife was. “Although, is he even the person to ask?”

“He did say he fought against Voldemort. We can ask him about that, too.”

“He certainly didn’t keep Harry’s parents safe, though.”

“We don’t know what happened to Harry’s parents, exactly…I’d better write this down.”

Emma started her new list of questions, which she was sure would grow a good deal longer by the time the old man visited them again.

“And…as difficult as it’ll be, if we really want to do this, we need to ask Hermione if she’s okay with it, too,” Dan said.

Emma closed her eyes, blinking back a tear or two. “I know. That’s going to be the hardest part in all this.”

“Come on, we’d better get to bed, then. I feel like it’s gonna be another long day tomorrow.”

“Ha, only tomorrow?”

They broke off the discussion and wearily trudged up the stairs. They were just at their bedroom door when Dan stopped one more time.

“Emma,” he said. “Do you remember how oddly your mother always dressed?”

“Yes, but…no, you don’t think?”

“Well, it wouldn’t even be in the top ten strange things that have happened today…and your parents both died a couple of years before Hermione was born under mysterious circumstances.”

“Something else we need to ask Dumbledore about.”

With the possibilities continuing to spin through their minds, they laid down for what would prove to be a most uneasy night’s sleep.

Albus Dumbledore returned to the Granger residence precisely on time the next day. Dan answered the door and shook his head slightly when he saw that the old man was now dressed in long maroon robes with black geometric patterns on them and a red nightcap.

“Thank you for seeing us again Mr. Dumbledore,” he said, shaking the man’s hand this time. “Please come in.”

Dumbledore entered the house and found it considerably calmer than yesterday, although the children were not to be seen on the lower level. This didn’t worry him though, as he had checked and found Harry to still be in residence when he left Hogwarts.

“The children are upstairs,” Emma said in response to the unspoken question. “We need to speak with you privately first.”

“Of course. Lead the way.”

Emma smirked slightly as they led him to the kitchen and again took the position of control with the two of them seated across the table from him.

“How is Harry today?” he asked with a light smile.

The Grangers smiled back, but they were more patronising smiles. “Physically, much better,” Emma said. “And he seemed reasonably comfortable last night. He’s going to need lot of time to adjust, though.”

Dumbledore nodded. He supposed that was the best that could be hoped for. He could assess the boy in person later. Noting the notebook that Emma held open on the table, he said, “I see you have more questions, Mrs. Granger. It’s reassuring to see that you are taking such an interest in your daughter’s future and wizarding culture.” Of course, he suspected more, but this was a time to let them do the talking.

“Yes, we’ll get to that in a moment,” she replied. She wanted to get the less important (maybe) question out of the way first. “But there was something we thought of last night. My parents died in 1977 under mysterious circumstances, Mr. Dumbledore. They were both found dead in their home in the aftermath of what looked like a gas explosion, but the coroner never actually determined a cause of death. And we also remembered that my mother always had an unusual habit of dressing in robes, but she never mentioned anything about magic that I can recall. Do you know if there might have been some kind of connection?”

Dumbledore stroked his beard in concern. “How unusual,” he said. “What was your mother’s maiden name?”

“Fawley. Emilie Fawley. My father was Samuel Puckle.”

“Hmm, I don’t know any Puckles, but Fawley is a wizarding name. However, most of that family was killed in Grindelwald’s War.”

“Grindelwald’s War?”

“You would know it as World War II.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “My grandparents on my mother’s side were killed in World War II. They both died in the Blitz.”

“That would fit, then. Mrs. Granger, I believe your mother may have been a squib—a non-magical person born to magical parents. Unfortunately, they are often shunned by pureblood families and leave the wizarding world—even more so before Grindelwald’s War, but their magical heritage may resurface after several generations.”

The Grangers glanced at each other. That explained Hermione, then.

“As for your parents…I’m afraid that their deaths were no accident, either. Voldemort rarely bothered with squibs who left the magical world, but your description bears all the marks of a Death Eater attack. You have my condolences for your loss, Mrs. Granger. It would appear that you’ve had several more unpleasant contacts with the magical world than I expected.”

This was news. The fact that both her parents and grandparents had been killed by “dark wizards’ was a lot to for her to take. She blinked back tears and buried her face in Dan’s shoulder as she tried to collect herself. Dan just wrapped his arms around her. He looked like he was going to be sick at the thought that his family had already been visited by the violent prejudices of the magical world, and he wondered again if it was worth it to deal with them at all. Though on the other hand, he thought, the fact that World War II was apparently a magical conflict meant that they might not be able to escape it. For the first time, he had to question his dismissal of taking an active role in things.

Dumbledore waited patiently for several minutes while the Grangers dealt with these revelations. They were surprising enough to him and had to be devastating for the muggle family. He pitied the little girl when she learnt the truth. Harry had never had a chance to escape it, but it was sad to see the innocence of yet another child stripped away by the conflict.

At length, he just barely heard Dan whisper to his wife, “Are you okay? It’s fine if you want to back out now.”

It took Emma another minute to think it through, but in the end, she whispered back, “No, it doesn’t change anything now.” With a rather loud sniffle, she looked up and turned back to Dumbledore. Wiping her tear-stained cheeks, she told him, “Th-thank you for—for providing us with some closure about this, sir. It’s…good that we can finally know the truth. But right now, we have more pressing issues. We…” she looked to her husband, and he nodded for her to go on. She spoke slowly to avoid tripping over her words: “We would like to consider adopting Harry ourselves.”

Dumbledore was genuinely shocked at this, which was a rare occurrence. It was all he could do to confine his reaction to a raising of his eyebrows. He was sure that he had lost the opportunity for good after the revelations about her family. He never would have taken the two of them to be that Gryffindor.

“That would be…extraordinarily generous of you,” he answered, not quite sure what to say. “May I…may I ask what led to this decision?”

“We…” her voice caught again. “We thought about what you said about Harry being so famous in the magical world. I’m sure you have good people, but we feel like we can give him a better environment here, where he can just be a kid for once. He deserves that after what he’s been through. We’ve always wanted another child and haven’t been able to have one, and Hermione already seems to like him…and frankly, we do, too.”

This was too good to be true. He had to wonder whether there were ulterior motives at work here, but when he resorted to Legilimency, he could sense no dishonesty from the pair, nor any sign of magical compulsions. He could already tell the Grangers were a fine family, and young Harry would be most fortunate to be a part of it, but he was amazed that they would even consider taking on that kind of risk.

“But you can probably see that there are some obvious problems with this arrangement,” Dan said before he could broach the subject.

Dumbledore nodded in understanding. No use evading the matter. “Voldemort.”

Dan nodded back firmly in response.

Dumbledore took a deep breath and solemnly folded his hands on the table. “Very well, what do you want to know?”

“First off, you said that you and Harry’s parents fought against him, but you also said you’re the headmaster of a school. What was all that about?”

“I have many roles in the magical world, Mr. Granger. There is much that I cannot tell you for security’s sake, but suffice it to say that I was the leader of a covert operation that worked against Voldemort’s schemes. I won’t pretend it wasn’t dangerous work. Over a third of our members died over the course of the war, including the Potters.”

That sounded even more serious than they thought, but they pressed on. “That’s the next question: Harry’s parents. What happened to them? How did Voldemort find them when Harry was with them? It’s doesn’t sound like they were killed in a firefight.”

He wasn’t wrong. Dumbledore told them what sounded like the full story: how Voldemort singled out the Potters for retribution, how they went into hiding, the Fidelius Charm, their betrayal by Sirius Black, who was now in prison, and their deaths at the hands of the dark wizard on All Hallows’ Eve of 1981.

“Why didn’t they have an escape route?” Emma demanded. “Surely, they knew there was a risk of being found out, even with the charm.”

“I do not believe they ever considered the possibility. They trusted Black too highly. But as it happened, they did have an escape route. Unfortunately, they were taken by surprise and could not reach it in time.”

“Then what good was having it? Why weren’t there magical protections there that gave them time to get away?”

Oh, how often Dumbledore had asked himself that very question in the past four years. But all he could do was admit that this had been yet another mistake. “Mrs. Granger,” he explained, “I think we have all seen by now that I am not infallible. I recommended a Fidelius Charm to James and Lily because it is the strongest of all magical wards so long as the Secret Keeper can be trusted. There are many less powerful wards, such as the blood wards at Harry’s former residence, and general wards that can be cast anywhere. Unfortunately, the Fidelius interferes with the application of most other types of wards. Had the Potters been in a conventionally warded house, they would almost certainly have slowed Voldemort down long enough for them to escape through the floo network, that is, magical travel by fireplace, unless he managed to find a way to interfere with the floo network itself, in which case we would have been in far worse trouble.”

“Okay, then,” Emma said after considering this answer. “If, and I do mean if, we choose to adopt Harry, would you be able to put these kinds of wards on our house, and perhaps our practice?”

It would take some paperwork, but it would be doable. “I can arrange that,” he answered. “They won’t be as strong as the blood wards, but they will slow down any attackers long enough to escape. For that event, I would provide a secured, private floo connection directly to Hogwarts, which is much more heavily warded.” That would be even more paperwork, and probably wouldn’t be possible except for his position as Chief Warlock, but no need to complicate things. He decided to sweeten the deal a bit more. “I can also provide you with emergency portkeys, which are portable, point-to-point, instant transport charms. They are less reliable because the Death Eaters sometimes used anti-portkey wards, and they can only be used within the island of Britain, but they are the best form of magical protection available for when you are outside the house.”

“Hmm…” Dan said, “that would make us feel a lot better about the possible arrangement. Although, with all due respect, sir, would it be possible to have these wards and escape routes independently certified?”

More distrust, Dumbledore thought, though he supposed he could hardly blame them. He was beginning to see the downside of not involving families of muggle-borns in the magical world until they enrolled in Hogwarts. Luckily, this one was relatively easy to answer. “I can put you in touch with Gringott’s Wizarding Bank,” he said. “They are experts in wards and security, and they have connections in the muggle world who can vouch for them. You will probably wish to contact them anyway regarding Harry. He inherited a rather substantial trust fund from his parents that can be used to help pay for his accommodation if need be.”

“We’re quite capable of supporting the boy ourselves, but thank you. A certification from this bank sounds reasonable enough. Now, what about the children themselves?

“What about them?”

“Well, since Voldemort or his followers might come after Harry, is there any kind of magical self-defence training the kids can take so they’re more prepared?”

“I’m afraid not. Underage magic use is prohibited outside of school, and children rarely have enough control to learn significant magic until age eleven. In any case, it seems unnecessary to burden children so young with such concerns.”

“We’ll be the judge of that,” Dan quipped.

“There are plenty of muggle martial arts programs that start that young,” Emma added. “You’re saying you really don’t have anything?”

“No, there is nothing like that in the magical world…however…” It was an intriguing idea that Dumbledore had not previously thought of. The twinkle in his eyes came back for the first time all day. “Muggle martial arts could prove helpful. Even though they won’t be that much use in a magical duel, the strength, stamina, and reaction time they build could make all the difference…especially since many Death Eaters rely on House Elves for manual labour and don’t concern themselves with such things. If you do wish to prepare the children, that is probably your best option until they come to Hogwarts.”

“If we adopt Harry, there’s no question,” Emma said. “We will ensure that they are as prepared as possible.”

“Now, the last issue is information,” Dan said. “I don’t know how you normally do this, but if we choose to adopt Harry, you will inform us immediately if Voldemort is sighted in any way, shape, or form.”

“Of course,” Dumbledore agreed. “If he returns, I will need to take immediate action to ensure the integrity of Harry’s protections.”

“And you will also inform us if there is any other new Death Eater activity.”

“Certainly.”

“And any other important developments, like if some other ‘dark wizard’ wants a piece of him.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Granger, you have my assurances that I will do everything in my power to protect young Harry and yourselves and your daughter should you choose to bring him into your family. And I can also take steps to expedite the adoption process if there are any problems with it.”

Both Grangers raised an eyebrow. “Is that legal?”

Dumbledore paused for a moment, tight-lipped, but he answered, “It can be done legally.”

Dan and Emma looked at each other again and whispered back and forth for a minute, but they decided they had no further questions. They rose from the table, and Emma spoke: “Okay, Mr. Dumbledore, we’re going to talk to Hermione about this, and then talk to Harry, and if they’re both okay with it, we’ll agree to the adoption. If you don’t mind waiting, you can stay here; watch the telly if you like. Or you can come back later.”

“I have the time to stay here for the afternoon, Mrs. Granger, thank you.”

They nodded and left the kitchen to head up the stairs. Dumbledore still couldn’t believe his luck with the Grangers. It would mean a lot of work to get all the necessary wards and approvals, but he would be happy to get a second chance with the boy, this time exposing him to the magical world in a controlled manner. As he thought about it, he realised that was probably even better than his original plan. He only hoped they could convince the children, as hard as that would be. In the meantime, he considered investigating the strange box that the muggles called a “telly.”

“One question first.” Dan said at the top of the stairs. “Do we trust that Dumbledore’s telling the truth?”

Emma had thought of that, too, but she thought so. “He has no reason to lie to us. If he wanted to harm Harry or us, he could have just waved that stick of his and done it. Right?”

“Right.” He felt a little queasy at the thought, though. “So you still want to go through with this after everything?”

She took a deep breath and nodded. “Against all common sense, yes.” She opened the door to her daughter’s room and found her trying to teach Harry to play Go Fish, with limited success. “Hermione, could you come here, please? Daddy and I need to talk to you. Harry, stay there for now. We’ll talk to you in a little while.”

Hermione got up and followed her parents into their bedroom, sensing how serious they were being.

“Have a seat,” her mother said, motioning to the bed. They had decided on the bedroom for this because it was closer and more intimate for such an emotional conversation. They all sat on the bed, and Hermione watched them carefully. Those large, chocolate-brown eyes of hers always seemed to pick up on everything. With the heavy curtains closed, it looked as much like evening in the room as mid-afternoon, which somehow seemed appropriate.

“Hermione, do you remember how Mr. Dumbledore said he wants to send Harry to a nice magical family last night?”

“Uh huh,” she nodded happily.

“Well, we’ve been talking with Mr. Dumbledore some more, and we don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

Hermione’s smile changed to a confused frown. “Why not?”

“Because, in the magical world, Harry is very famous because everyone thinks he beat that bad wizard, Voldemort.”

“The one who killed his parents?” she whispered.

“Yes, him. Everyone thinks Harry defeated Voldemort, even though he was just a baby and didn’t do anything. If he lives over there, everyone will treat him like a famous movie star, and he might get spoilt. And we don’t want him to end up like his mean cousin, do we.”

Hermione gave a slight giggle at this, but then turned serious again. “Do you think Mr. Dumbledore will mess up again?” she asked, reminding them that there was no pulling the wool over their daughter’s eyes.

Her father answered her, “We think Mr. Dumbledore really wants to fix his mistake, and he’ll put Harry with a much better family than his old one, but we don’t know how good of a family they’ll be.”

Emma took a deep breath and continued, “So…your father and I decided that we would like to adopt Harry. Do you know what that means?”

Hermione’s eye went wide. “It means he’d live with us? And he’d be my brother?”

“That’s right—”

“That’s great!”

“Wait,” Dan interrupted. “There’s something you need to know, first. It would be dangerous if we adopt Harry.” He made sure to speak that last sentence especially clearly.

“What…? Why?”

“Because, honey, Mr. Dumbledore thinks that Voldemort isn’t really dead.”

“What!”

“Yes, he thinks that Voldemort might come back someday and try to kill Harry again.”

Hermione clapped both hands over her mouth. Her mother reached out to her and pulled her close, putting an arm around her. “We’re sorry you have to hear all of this, Hermione, but it’s very important that you understand. Do you remember how I told you about my parents, your Grandma and Grandpa Puckle, and how they died before you were born?”

The wheels were already turning, and if it were possible, Hermione’s eyes grew even wider. She nodded while keeping her hands over her mouth.

“We told Mr. Dumbledore about them, and he thinks that Voldemort killed them, too…You see, Voldemort is a very bad man. He hated my mother because she couldn’t do magic when her parents—your great-grandparents—were magical. He hates Harry because his parents fought him. And he also hates people who can do magic, but don’t have magical parents—people like you…” Emma took a deep breath to try to keep her voice steady. “So even if Harry’s not here…if he comes back…he might try to kill you, too.”

“Eep!” Hermione hugged her mother tight and hid her face in her shirt.

“We don’t know if Voldemort is going to come back,” Dan said soothingly. “Even if he does, it might not be until years and years from now. Now, if it’s just the three of us, we can leave the country, and we’ll be safe from him.”

Hermione suddenly went still. She held herself there, clinging to her mother for a few moments, then she very slowly pulled away, looked up to face her parents, and whispered, “But Harry can’t?”

She is her mother’s daughter for sure, Dan thought as he shook his head. “No, Voldemort especially hates Harry, and he’ll chase him anywhere in the world.”

“But that’s not fair!” She exclaimed, flipping from sadness to anger in a blink. “His parents died, his aunt and uncle hurt him, and now no one wants him because it’s dangerous.”

“That’s not true, Hermione,” Emma said. “We do want him. And Mr. Dumbledore can use magic to protect us. We just want to make sure you’re okay with it.”

She started to process this. Magical protection sounded good, and she was sure she would like having Harry as a brother. But bad guys trying to kill her? Not so much. She wasn’t sure what she wanted.

“It’s okay if you say no,” her father assured her. “There’s other families that want him, too. Like Mummy said, he’s famous—”

“But that’s not fair either! They shouldn’t want him just because he’s famous. They should want him because he’s Harry.”

If there was any doubt that Hermione had inherited her mother’s uncompromising sense of justice, it was gone now. Dan would have been proud of her had it not been the same thing that had been giving him headaches all weekend.

“We know it’s not fair, honey,” he tried again, “but it’s still okay if you say no. You can still be friends with Harry, and as long as it’s safe, you can go to the same magical school with him in a few years.”

“And,” Emma added, “if we do adopt Harry, there’s going to have to be some changes, and I don’t mean just because you won’t be the only kid in the house anymore.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

“Well, one thing is that the way Mr. Dumbledore’s magical protections work, we would all have to be ready to get away really fast—like a fire drill. Another thing is that we want you to be as prepared as possible just in case bad guys do show up. You’re too young to use magic now, but Mr. Dumbledore says that if you learn non-magical self-defence, it will help you be better at magic later, so you would both be taking karate classes. And like Mr. Dumbledore said, we have to keep everything magical a secret, so you can’t tell anyone at school or anything like that.”

“Oh…I understand.” She had been nodding slowly throughout the explanation.

“But we need to decide this as a family, and we need to make sure we all agree,” Dan said.

“Yes, and you need to be really sure about this because if we do adopt Harry, we’re not going to hurt him or abandon him like those other people did,” Emma added.

Hermione didn’t need to be told twice how seriously her parents were taking this, and she knew that if they took this step, there would be no going back. She looked away from her parents’ questioning faces. She thought about how much she would like having a brother, especially one who was magical, like she apparently was, and about how much Harry needed a good family. She also thought about how it would put them against the bad guys, but in the end, she really only had one question. Looking back at her mother, she asked, “Do you think Mr. Dumbledore will keep us safe?”

Not completely, no, Emma thought, but he had promised the best that magic could give them. “I think,” she said, “that that’s one thing he’s really good at.”

Hermione looked away again, but it was just a few seconds before she looked back and nervously whispered, “I think we should do it.”

Neither of her parents displayed any outward opinion of her decision. They just nodded with a sense of finality.

“Okay,” her mother said, extricating her from her grip. “I’ll go get Harry.”

Harry lay on his stomach on the floor of Hermione’s room, where he had been left, examining the playing cards. He could read enough to tell them apart, but the idea of matching them up was a little more difficult, and any kind of actual strategy was completely beyond him. He didn’t mind being left alone. He had long since learnt to deal with boredom, but now, it gave him time to think about what had happened. He had awoken that morning as a cat again, in the same double bed he had gone to sleep in, and hadn’t remembered to change back until breakfast. It would take him a while to get used to being human again. He had been served breakfast at the table (the pancakes were definitely sweeter than he was used to, and he said so, but he was told that’s how they were supposed to be), watched the telly and just talked for a while, had a sandwich for lunch, and then Hermione started trying to teach him her card games. He might have preferred to teach Hermione his own games, but the only games he knew were Harry Hunting (which he opposed on principle), Rodent Hunting, and the occasional mock fight with another kitten, so that probably wouldn’t work out.

“Harry?”

With a start, he rolled to one side and turned his head to meet Emma’s gaze.

“Come with me, please.”

The boy scrambled to his feet and followed her into the master bedroom. When she asked him to have a seat on the bed, where he wound up facing the three Grangers who reclined against the headboard, it was another new arrangement for him. He knelt on the bed instead of sitting, keeping his legs in a position where he could spring to his feet.

“Harry,” Emma said, “do you remember when Mr. Dumbledore said he would take you to a magical family?”

The boy nodded slowly, still staring intently at the Grangers. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, we talked it over with him, and we think that it would be better for you if you stayed in the non-magical world until you’re old enough to go to magic school. So all three of us—” She motioned to her husband and daughter. “—decided that we would like to adopt you into our family. Do you know what that means, Harry?”

He’d heard the word before, and he knew that it had something to do with family, but no one had ever really explained it to him. It was something Aunt Petunia had said once in a while, but never in a nice way. “No, ma’am,” he said, shaking his head.

“It means that we would sign some papers to make you legally our son. We would be your new parents, and Hermione would be your sister. You would live with us from now on, and…and Mr. Dumbledore would help us make sure that you never have to go back to your aunt and uncle again.”

Harry hunched over slightly, gripping the blankets with his fingers. Tears started to form in his eyes.

“Would you like to join our family, Harry?” Emma said.

Harry couldn’t believe his ears. After all the times Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia had complained about having to raise him and called him a burden, these people actually wanted him? When they only met him yesterday? And as a son, not just a nephew or some boy in the house (or a pet)? Those were words he understood. Even he could tell Dudley was spoilt, but at least his aunt and uncle were nice to him. And the Grangers were actually asking him what he wanted? Never having to go back to the Dursleys would have been enough by itself, but these were literally the nicest people he could ever remember meeting, and after staying with them overnight, he could actually start to believe that they meant what they said.

It was almost an involuntary response as Harry blinked very slowly at them and lowered his head slightly, but they didn’t seem to understand the gesture.

“Harry?” Dan asked.

Harry’s tears finally flowed freely as his spring-loaded legs uncurled, and he pounced on the Grangers, trying to reach his arms as far as he could around them. Emma wrapped him in a hug, Hermione piled on his back, and Dan reached an arm around to his shoulder, and for once he didn’t mind a bit. Once they gave him enough room to breathe, he began humming to himself and rubbing his head against Emma’s shoulder in a way that was unmistakably cat-like.

Emma chuckled at the sudden display of affection and started rubbing the boy’s back. At that, he fully relaxed for what seemed like the first time in her presence. “Well, I think that’s a yes, then,” she said softly.

Dan smiled, putting aside the insanity of the decision for the moment, and said, “Welcome to the family, son.” Wow, he thought, there’s some words I didn’t think I’d use for another twenty years.

Dumbledore was just starting to understand muggle television in terms of its similarity to the Wizarding Wireless. Anyone who could figure out how to transmit moving pictures with magic would stand to make a lot of money, but that was a matter for another time as he saw the three Grangers and Harry Potter descending the stairs. He didn’t remember exactly how he had turned the device on, but he reached into his pocket and quickly turned it off with a flick of his deluminator. He rose to his feet, but when he saw young Harry hugging Emma’s legs and smiling serenely with his eyes nearly-closed, he rejoiced inwardly and let them do the talking.

“Mr. Dumbledore, we have decided to adopt Harry,” Dan said simply. “We’ll take him to a doctor and get started on the paperwork tomorrow.”

Dumbledore tipped his hat to them and smiled broadly. “Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Granger—and Miss Granger. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate being able to find a loving home for the boy so quickly. I will, of course, contact you within the week about the security arrangements for your house. For the time being, no one else knows where Harry is, so I see no reason that you cannot send him to your daughter’s primary school immediately.”

“Yes, that—that sounds good,” Dan said, having all but forgotten that Harry had spent all of two weeks in school back at the beginning of the term.

Dumbledore now looked down at Harry, whose eyes snapped open to stare back. “Harry, I think you will be very happy here. Your new family are good people. In a few years, I hope you and your new sister will consider coming to Hogwarts to learn magic.”

Harry said nothing, but he blinked slowly at Dumbledore, and the Headmaster suddenly recognised where he had seen the boy’s mannerisms before. Of course, it was Minerva who gave him that same slow blink in almost every meeting, and he had seen the same response from plenty of cats in his time. He remembered his earlier discussion with Minerva and looked back up at the boy’s new parents—now that would take some getting used to—for everyone in the wizarding world someday.

“Also, now that the Harry’s long-term placement is settled,” he said, “I wonder if you might like to meet with my Deputy, Minerva McGonagall, next weekend. She is also an animagus, and by a great coincidence, her form is also a cat. I believe she could teach Harry to properly handle his feline side.”

“That would be excellent,” Emma said. “That’s very fortunate that someone like her is available.”

“Indeed. I will arrange it immediately.”

“And Mr. Dumbledore,” Dan continued, “we still know so little about the magical world, when you get down to it. Is there any way we could learn more about it? Books on magical life or history or something of the sort?”

“Oh, yes, magic books!” Hermione piped up.

Dumbledore chuckled at the girl’s enthusiasm. “Since you are so interested, I think I can pick up a couple of books for you. And now, I will bid you good afternoon. I’m sure you have a lot to catch up on.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Dumbledore…and thank you,” Dan said. He shook the old man’s hand.

After receiving thanks and shaking hands with the rest of the family—even Harry, at last—Dumbledore took his leave. The Grangers were shocked when he exited through the front door.

Minerva witnessed Albus returning to the castle after what had clearly been a very emotional meeting and quickly followed him to his office. Oddly, though, she couldn’t get a read on him as he took his seat, and that likely meant something very out of the ordinary had happened.

“Albus, is anything wrong?” she asked. “What did that family want to talk to about?”

“Please sit, Minerva. Nothing is wrong,” Albus said. “In fact, I was most fortunate to solve another of our problems. The Granger family has agreed to adopt Harry Potter and raise him alongside their daughter.”

“Adopt him? So quickly?” Minerva tensed up and shot him one of her trademark unblinking stares. “Albus, if I find out you used a Compulsion Charm on those muggles…”

“I assure you I did nothing of the sort, nor did I even suggest the action to them. They came to their decision entirely on their own.”

Minerva wasn’t placated. “And did you allow them to come to this decision without knowing the risks that Mr. Potter carries with him?”

“On the contrary, the matter had already come up in our conversation yesterday. When I met with them today, they asked me most extensive questions about the nature of the threat and how they might be kept safe before making their decision. I must say that the Grangers are the most proactive set of muggle parents I have met in quite some time, and if their daughter takes after them, she will make a fine addition to your house.”

And there was that slow blink again. The remark had caught her a bit off guard, though there was still something that confused her about the whole affair. “So you found Harry Potter after losing him for seven weeks,” she said, “And then you find a new family for him overnight? How can you possibly explain that?” She started to wonder if Albus could possibly have staged some of it, though why would he?

“I think Sybill would be a better person with whom to discuss the vagaries of Fate…” he replied. “On a good day, anyway. But as I said yesterday, I think that perhaps the normal rules do not apply to Harry Potter.”

Minerva couldn’t help but wonder whether that was a good thing. “So what must be done now?”

“Quite a lot at the moment,” Albus confirmed, “and I will need your help with some of it.”

“How so?”

“First, I will be very busy this week making the security arrangements for the Granger residence. I’m sure you can handle anything that may come up in the meantime. Secondly, I would like to arrange your meeting with Mr. Potter and his new family. Would next Saturday be suitable?”

A much needed meeting, at that. She took only a moment to consider her schedule before answering, “Yes, I think that would work. And I will make contingencies for your being away this week.”

“Very good, Minerva. I do believe we have set Mr. Potter on a much better path.”

“Well, I should certainly hope so,” she huffed. “Will you be informing anyone else of these arrangements?”

“Only those who need to know. He is still safer if his location is not widely known, and as we discussed four years ago, the political consequences of the Boy-Who-Lived being raised by muggles are best put off until he can speak for himself.”

“Of course. I suppose that’s for the best. And that’s one more good reason that the boy escaped his relatives when he did,” she reminded him.

“Quite,” he said curtly.

“And Albus?”

“Yes?”

“Do be sure that you are thorough regarding the boy’s safety.”

Albus smiled at her. “The Grangers are demanding Gringotts certification of their wards,” he said. “I could hardly do otherwise.”

Harry looked around Hermione’s classroom—his new classroom—the next morning while Mrs. Granger—no, it was Mum, now—had a few words with the teacher. He had only spent a couple of weeks in a classroom before, and those weeks had been only mildly more pleasant than usual. This classroom didn’t look much different from the one in Little Whinging, except for the faces. He hoped they would be nicer than his last class. He didn’t know anyone here besides Hermione, so there was no reason for anyone to start turning people against him, like last time, and if anyone did, he had at least grown some—no, Mrs. Granger said he couldn’t use his claws here. No, she was his Mum now, or would be once she signed the papers. The thought brought tears to his eyes, but he blinked them back, as he had long since grown all too accustomed to doing. Anyway, he could still—no, he couldn’t turn into a cat to escape, either. Being human was hard. He had to be so…normal all the time, even without Uncle Vernon breathing down his neck.

He kept watching, wide-eyed, trying to take in as much as he could. He started to notice some of the other kids staring at him, so he looked away back toward the teacher and Mum—no—yes, he got it right that time. But he saw the teacher shoot him a couple of nervous glances, so he turned to inspecting the walls, floors, tables—generally avoiding people’s eyes, although as he felt more and more eyes on him, he found he couldn’t just look away. He looked at the faces of his new classmates in turn, and he noticed what appeared to be a name tag taped to the little tables in front of each of them. He couldn’t see any unclaimed seats.

Hermione had already sat down. He wanted to sit next to her, next to someone familiar, but there were no empty seats at that table. He started to wonder if there had been some kind of mistake in bringing him here. Hermione saw him standing awkwardly and got up again to stand by his side, but he didn’t pay her much attention, since he was focusing on the teacher again. At last, the grown-ups broke off their conversation.

Their Mum came over first. She leaned down and told them, “Alright, kids, Mrs. Callahan will take over from here. I’ll pick you up right here after classes. Have a nice day. I love you both.” She then kissed both of them on the cheek, an action which, in Year 1, caused them only mild embarrassment. Harry, who was still easily overwhelmed by being told he was loved, didn’t even notice the giggles of the other children.

Then the teacher introduced herself to her new student. She hadn’t had much personal experience with abused children, but she would just have to hope for the best. “Hello, Harry, I’m Mrs. Callahan,” she said with a somewhat forced smile. “I’m going to be your new teacher this year. I know you’ve missed some school, but your parents and I are going to try to help you catch up with your lessons, okay?”

His parents—not even his new parents, she had said. Harry could be forgiven for being a little slow on the uptake, since that phrase constantly made his chest feel tight and derailed whatever he was thinking about at the time. He regarded the woman silently. She looked nice enough, like his previous teacher, whom he couldn’t fault for any of the other trouble he had had, and—wait, he was supposed to answer that, wasn’t he? What was it? Something about catching up with lessons. He blinked slowly at her and answered, “Yes, ma’am.”

“Very good, Harry.” She stood up straight and addressed the class: “Boys and girls, we have a new student today. This is Harry Potter. He just ‘moved’ here from Surrey, and he’s being adopted by Hermione’s family. Everyone say, “Hello, Harry.’”

“Hello, Harry.” the class repeated.

Mrs. Callahan brought in an extra chair and rearranged a couple of the seats so that Harry could sit at Hermione’s table, much to the boy’s relief. Harry noticed the other kids at their table glance at the scar on his forehead a couple of times, but that was it.

Harry was pretty far behind and had forgotten most of what little he had learnt at his school in Little Whinging, but he thought Mrs. Callahan was a good teacher. He was lucky that she was still teaching the basics of reading, and with Hermione’s help, he started to relearn how to sound out words. Mrs. Callahan didn’t call on him to answer any questions, and nobody besides Hermione paid much attention to him in class, which for now, at least, was how he liked it. Any attention he got at his old school usually didn’t end too well for him, but here, his only problem was that he had a hard time seeing the board, although he remembered Mr. Granger—no, Dad—saying that was supposed to be taken care of soon.

But recess was the part he was dreading, even though he had no objective reason to. A large, disorganised group of children definitely wasn’t his thing, he thought. He tended to end up on the wrong end of a gang of bullies when he was around one of those. Hermione wasn’t too enthusiastic about it either, although that was mostly because Mrs. Callahan wouldn’t let her take a book with her. The two of them stuck close together and wandered around for a few minutes. With him not knowing anyone, and her not having any close friends, there didn’t seem to be much point to anything else. Then Harry noticed something that hadn’t interested him the last time he was in a schoolyard: the jungle gym.

It was mostly older kids who were playing on it, since it was a little too advanced for the little ones, but when Harry got the idea into his head, he made a beeline for it. Putting his cat-like sense of balance to good use, he scrambled up the structure with the ease of a boy twice his age.

“Whoa, you’re good,” another boy who looked only a little older than him said from the bar below him.

“Thanks,” Harry said, smiling a little at actually being praised for something.

“Who are you?” the boy asked.

“I’m, uh, Harry—Harry Potter…Who are you?”

“I’m Paul—Paul Talbot, the boy mimicked him.

“Hi, Harry. Hi Paul. I’m Tiffany,” a little girl with short blonde hair said as she struggled up the side of the structure. “Oof, how’d you learn to climb like that?”

“I, uh…watched my cat?” Harry tried to cover for himself. Both of the other kids started laughing. He tensed up, ready to flee, but they didn’t seem to be calling him out. In fact, they were smiling at him. Maybe these two were alright. He looked down at where his new sister was watching from. “Hermione, come up here,” he said.

“I…I don’t think so. I’m not good at climbing,” she answered as she nervously eyed the metal structure.

“It’s not that hard,” he said. He started to descend headfirst, but quickly learnt that his cat-like sense of balance was just a metaphor in human form. He slipped, but caught himself just as the playground monitor had started to run to help him. He managed to slide down the rest of the way unaided, though, and dismissed the slip-up, saying, “No, really. Come on.” He offered a hand to help her up.

That was enough to get her to try it, Harry was glad to see. With his help, and under the watchful eye of the monitor, she shakily made her way to the top of the jungle gym. She clung tight to the bars, though, while he sat comfortably on the top.

“Hey guys, this is my sister, Hermione,” Harry told the others, surprising himself by grinning with pride.

Tiffany giggled at her name, and Paul blurted out, “What kinda name is Hermione?”

Harry glared at him, but the girl in question blushed and averted her eyes, whispering, “It’s from The Winter’s Tale.”

“It’s better than Paul,” Harry said, and instantly regretted it, not for defending Hermione, but because he didn’t want to antagonise the other boy (who was, after all, larger than he was), not to mention that it didn’t even make sense.

He was shocked and relieved when Tiffany saved him by saying, “Yeah, “cause she’s a girl.”

That set Paul laughing again. “Yeah, that’d be awful.”

Harry let out the breath he was holding and nearly slipped again before he remembered he was sitting ten feet off the ground on a metal bar, but the crisis seemed to be averted. The four children hung out around the jungle gym for the rest of the recess, mostly just climbing back and forth around the bars and dodging the bigger kids, although both of the girls seemed to be more interested in sitting in one place.

Since they weren’t in the same class, Paul and Tiffany didn’t know about Harry “moving” from Surrey, and they seemed to accept his explanation that he was being adopted by Hermione’s parents when they asked about where he lived. The only other incident came when Tiffany got a good look at his face and asked what had happened to his head. He had to fight the urge to run away at that point, possibly in cat form, but he haltingly mumbled the cover story that he had been in a car crash. Paul and Tiffany both winced, but didn’t make anything else out of it.

Harry and Hermione both walked back to class wondering in amazement that they might have actually managed to make some friends.

Those first few days were busy ones. Harry had to go to see a doctor that afternoon for a complete physical, with x-rays scheduled for Friday, to make sure he was doing okay and to help build the case against his aunt and uncle. Luckily, they hadn’t contested the loss of custody, so that was one less thing to worry about. Harry was found to be malnourished and to have some old injuries that had not been properly treated, but nothing that would seriously hamper him in the future. In any case, he was now getting plenty to eat.

The next day was the eye doctor, where Harry learnt that he did, indeed, need glasses, since he was already quite nearsighted. He found himself drawn to a pair of round, black frames that could decidedly not be considered stylish, but his family agreed that they actually looked strangely good on him. He was very happy that he could actually read the blackboard the next day, and that the other kids didn’t say much about his glasses.

Dan and Emma had also tried to take him to a barber to make him look more presentable, but his hair was so wild that the only thing that would make it behave was buzz cut, which Harry didn’t like at all. They just shook their heads the next day when they saw that it had grown back out overnight.

In the meantime, there was a lot of paperwork to do. They had to formally extend Harry’s fostering placement pending a preliminary adoption placement, then file for the formal adoption order, for which there was a minimum ten-week waiting period. On top of that, there were school and medical records that had to be pieced together from the Dursleys’ poor record keeping. It was only by luck that they got a hold of a vaccination report. They never learnt if there was any magic being done behind the scenes to help them out, but they certainly felt like they could use some.

Thursday was a mildly calmer day. Harry had managed to wake up as a human for two days in a row. He was getting used to his new glasses and was feeling more comfortable in his new home and school. So of course, that was the perfect time for the magical world to slip back in and cause more chaos. It started when they heard a tapping at the kitchen window that morning.

Emma quickly opened the curtains to the strangest sight she had seen since…well, not all that long, really, but it was strange enough. “What the—?”

“What is it, Emma?” Dan asked.

“There is an owl with a letter in its beak.”

“A what?” He rose and approached the window. Sure enough, there was a rather large short-eared owl with an envelope in its beak, tapping against the window and glaring at the couple. The envelope was clearly addressed to “Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” followed by their street address.

“It must want you to take the letter,” Dan observed.

“Uh huh…” Emma said distantly. She cautiously opened the window and took the letter from the bird. It gave an annoyed hoot and quickly flew away. “It looks like it’s on parchment,” she said, turning it over and breaking the ornate wax seal. She slid a note out of the envelope and opened it.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Granger,

Per your request, I have arranged to place magical protections on your house. Please expect me at 8 o ’clock tonight to set them up, and ensure that the fireplace is not blocked. I will also bring a few items of importance to you and Harry.

Sincerely,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

“Brian?” Dan said. “It sounds so normal.”

“Hmm, eight tonight,” Emma stayed on task. “Well, good to get it out of the way. I wonder what he’s bringing, though.”

“I don’t know. He didn’t seem to think Harry needed anything before.”

“Unless it’s part of the protections,” Emma suggested. “And I assume that’s what the fireplace is about.”

“I think so. He did mention it. Is there anything going on tonight?”

“No, for once. There shouldn’t be any trouble.”

The Grangers waited for the doorbell to ring at eight o’clock, but it never did. Instead, at the appointed hour, there was a whoosh from the fireplace, and they looked over and saw the head of Albus Dumbledore sticking out from emerald green flames.

Harry and Hermione both screamed and fled from the room, and their parents looked about ready to do the same.

“Wait,” the disembodied head said. The image was blurry and flickering around the edges, and most of his beard was not visible. “I apologise for alarming you, Mr. and Mrs. Granger. This was the quickest way to check the floo connection. May I come in.”

“Um…yes, yes, of course,” Emma said, remembering her manners.

“Thank you.” Dumbledore’s torso followed his head as he stepped through, stooping low to get out of the fireplace. He was wearing his red and black robes again, and Hermione, peering out from around the corner, shouted out what everyone was thinking: “You are Santa Claus!”

Dumbledore laughed at her comment. “No, Hermione, I’m afraid the resemblance is entirely coincidental. I am merely demonstrating floo transport, which is how many witches and wizards travel from place to place. Look, as you can see, as long as the flame burns green, it is quite safe to touch.” He waved his hand through the magical fire.

Dan cautiously reached out a hand to the fire, followed by his wife. The flames were only lukewarm and gave off no heat to the room.

Then, Dumbledore pulled out his wand, pointed it into the flames, and said, “Accio trunk.” Suddenly, a smallish trunk flew out of the fireplace and straight to the old wizard’s hands. The Grangers noted that this was the first bit of obviously useful magic they had yet seen. A moment later, the green flames changed back to their natural orange, and they could feel the heat from the fire again.

“Gather around, please. All of you will need to see this demonstration.” All four of them clustered around the fireplace, and the Headmaster pulled out a large urn that was taller than the size of the trunk. He placed it by one side of the fireplace and opened it to reveal a green powder inside. “Harry,” he said seriously, then stopped when he saw the boy’s new look.

“Yes, sir?” the boy asked.

“How extraordinary. Those glasses look very much like your father’s.”

“They do?”

“They do, indeed. Did you pick them out yourself?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It would seem that you have inherited your father’s sense of fashion, then.” Dumbledore turned serious again. “As I was saying, though, Harry, I am afraid that it is entirely possible that Voldemort may one day return—or else his followers will come looking for you.”

Harry flinched at the revelation and stared at him intently.

“Should you or your family ever be attacked here, you will be able to escape through the fireplace.” He grabbed a handful of the green powder and said, “This is floo powder. It is used to create a magical fire that connects your fireplace with another one. However, unlike most magical fireplaces, I have set yours up so that it will only connect with my office at Hogwarts. To use it, you must throw a handful of the powder into the fireplace and clearly speak the word, ‘Hogwarts’.” He demonstrated the action, and the flames turned green again. “Now, it is possible to traverse freely from one side to the other.”

“Wow, that is a neat trick,” Dan finally said. If wizards could do this, he wondered why they even needed to go out.

“It’s a little more complex than a “trick,” Mr. Granger, but the sentiment is appreciated,” Dumbledore said. The flames changed back to orange again. “The flames will not change if anyone is in the fireplace,” he continued. “However, do not leave the connection open for too long, because it could produce an ashwinder and risk setting fire to the surroundings. And I would advise you to only use it in case of emergency, or with an appointment. Much less paperwork that way. Now, for the matter of the protections on the house…” He reached back into the trunk and lifted out a stack of flagstones that appeared to be inscribed with Norse writing. “These are rune stones. They are used to power strong and lasting magic that cannot be cast with a wand alone. I will need to place one at each corner of your property and another at each corner of the outer walls of the house. Once in place, they will produce a magical shield that will keep out any attackers long enough for you to escape. If you do not mind, I will place them now.”

Dan and Emma whispered to each other, but Dan said, “Might as well.” He put on a jacket and led Dumbledore outside.

It must have been a strange sight to any neighbours watching, Emma thought, with Dan wandering around with a torch in hand, looking for the corners of the property and what looked like an old man in pyjamas following and placing stones in strategic locations. Of course, what the Grangers didn’t know was that there was no chance of any neighbours watching, since Dumbledore had cast a Notice-Me-Not Charm on the pair of them. After placing each stone, Dumbledore would mutter an incantation, and the stone would glow briefly before sinking into the ground and being covered with soil.

Emma and the children watched from the door. Hermione was fascinated by the complex procedures used to place the protections, by Harry clung to Emma’s skirts with growing concern. “M-M-Mum…?” he said. He was gradually getting better about the names.

“Yes, Harry?”

“Mr. Dumbledore said that Vol…Vol-dee-mort might come back?” He sounded out the name.

Emma sighed and put an arm around Harry’s shoulder. “Yes, Mr. Dumbledore thinks he’s still alive somewhere.”

Harry started shivering. “But…but…why does he want me?” he stammered.

“Because he’s a very evil man. He doesn’t like that you escaped him before, and that’s why Mr. Dumbledore thinks he might come back for you.”

Harry grew alarmed and started to cry. “But now he’ll come here…? He’ll come for you, too! You shouldn’t have taken me!”

“No!” Emma picked the boy up and held him tight. “Don’t ever think that, Harry. Mr. Dumbledore told us about Voldemort before, and we still wanted you—even Hermione.”

Harry looked up to meet her eyes, still sniffling. “Really?”

“Yeah!” Hermione said from below.

“Of course we did,” Emma continued. “You’re part of our family now, and we’re not ever going to let an insane magical terrorist change that. Mr. Dumbledore and some other wizards are going to protect us, and we’re all going to help you and Hermione learn to protect yourselves, too. So if Voldemort ever does come back, we’ll be ready for him.”

Harry cracked a small smile and rubbed his head against his new mum’s shoulder, still too emotional to speak. Emma looked back to the others, wishing she were half as confident as she sounded. They watched as Dumbledore continued his work.

Dumbledore himself, oblivious for once to the conversation at the door, spoke with Dan a little as he cast the wards, asking how Harry was adjusting. He was delighted to hear that the boy appeared to have no lasting injuries and had already made friends at school. He laughed to hear about him regrowing his hair and said that that sounded very much like his father. He also asked about the adoption process to make sure everything was on track.

“By the way,” he said as they neared the end of the work. “Were you planning on changing Harry’s surname with the adoption?”

“Probably,” Dan answered. “Why?”

“Well, that is perfectly acceptable, of course, but I must warn you that for complex legal reasons, the name change would not be accepted in the magical world.”

“Why not?” Dan said suspiciously, turning to face Dumbledore.

Dumbledore squinted in the torch's light and said, “Fame aside, in simplest terms, Harry is heir to a seat on the Wizengamot, and only he himself will have the right to change the family name when he comes of age.”

“The Wizen…gamot? Your magical Lords?”

“Correct. This is of no present importance, of course—merely an early notice for when Harry reenters the magical world. Ah, here is the last one.” He broke off the conversation, leaving Dan to mull over his words in private. At the last stone, he spoke a much longer incantation. Suddenly, a luminous, transparent, orange shell flashed into being around the house and property and just as quickly vanished.

“Wow…” Harry and Hermione exclaimed from their vantage point at the door.

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” the Headmaster said when he came back in the house. “I will certainly breathe easier knowing that you are protected here.”

“I think we can agree on that,” Emma replied.

“As for certification, you can go to any major chain bank and tell the teller that you are there on Gringotts business. They will provide a wizard liaison to navigate you through the process, for a nominal fee.”

“Thank you,” Dan said.

“Now, there are just a few more things here,” he continued. He returned to his trunk and pulled out two necklaces, which he handed to Dan and Emma. On each one hung a silver medallion inscribed with more Norse writing. “These are Anti-Anti-Muggle Charms,” he explained, “normally given to muggle parents of Hogwarts students. While you wear them, you will be able to see things that are normally hidden from muggles, such as the magical shopping district in London, and Hogwarts itself.”

Dumbledore then pulled two large books from the trunk and placed them on the coffee table. “I believe you requested information about magical history. A History of Magic is the Hogwarts history textbook up through fifth year and covers general historical knowledge, particularly in Britain, up to the end of Grindelwald’s War. Modern Magical History is the most popular reference for more recent history, including the war against Voldemort—although it sadly follows the current fashion of refusing to print his name.”

The family wondered at that last comment, but Dumbledore wasn’t done. Last of all, he pulled two framed pictures out of the trunk. “I also thought you might like to have some family pictures,” he said lightly, handing one over to Emma. “This is a portrait of the Fawley Family taken in 1939.”

Emma gasped when she saw a crisp, vibrant colour photograph of a middle-aged couple in robes surrounded by four children, one of whom was unmistakably her mother at age fourteen. “Mr. Dumbledore, I…I can’t thank you enough…” she said with tears in her eyes as the others gathered around to see. “I never had any pictures of my grandparents.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Granger. And the other photograph is for Harry.”

“Me, sir?”

“Yes, my boy. I was dismayed to see that your aunt had no pictures of her sister or her family in her home, so I was able to find this one for you.” He turned the frame around to reveal a picture of a young couple holding their infant son. Only Dumbledore knew that both pictures were magical photographs frozen for public display, but in a muggle home, they would fit right in.

“That’s…that’s me?” Harry asked. “And my parents—my birth parents?”

“Yes, they are. It was taken on your first birthday, I believe.”

Harry gazed silently at the image, and a wistful smile crept over his face. Dan and Emma regarded the picture: baby Harry was being held up by a young man with his same uncontrollable hair and the same face, right down to the glasses, and again by a young woman with auburn hair. It was obvious from the picture that the boy had got his piercing green eyes from his mother.

Emma picked up Harry and held him close. “Thank you, Mr. Dumbledore,” she said again. Dan nodded his agreement.

“It is a pleasure to be of assistance,” the old wizard replied, doffing his cap. “If there is nothing else, I shan’t keep you any later. Good evening.” He threw another handful of floo powder in the fireplace, and in a blink, he was gone.

Minerva McGonagall located the address Albus had given her. It certainly looked nicer than the boy’s previous accommodations. Those had not been in a bad neighbourhood, but the houses here were a little more spaced out, with more trees and green space between them. The house itself looked a little larger, too, but of course, as she knew well, it was the people in the house who mattered. From what Albus had told her, the Grangers sounded like a good family, but she would be sure to investigate them for herself very carefully.

She arrived in the neighbourhood early in the morning, even before breakfast, and immediately took up position next door as a large, grey tabby watching through the windows. She wouldn’t exactly be dining in luxury this morning, but she was willing to do a lot for Harry Potter. In an act that she would never have let her students see (or, indeed, many of her colleagues), she quickly caught herself a vole for breakfast. She had got quite good at it in her younger and more adventurous days, but it was hardly a dignified act for a teacher.

Even by cat standards, Minerva could fix quite a stare. She spent most of the morning watching the Granger family atop a chair from which she could see into the kitchen window. Though they knew she was coming later, they gave no indication that they suspected her. She was relieved to find that things looked perfectly normal, at least as far as she could see from there. It was hard to get a clear look at the boy, and he did look small and quiet, but she could make out the mother making breakfast and the two kittens—ah, the two children sitting at the table, talking and laughing. She didn’t need Albus’s report to know that wasn’t something that was likely to have happened at the Dursley residence, nor was it when the father came in and hugged both of them.

The family spent the rest of the morning in ordinary activities: doing a few chores, the children playing and watching the muggle “telly.” Nothing seemed to be amiss, and Minerva took comfort in the thought that Albus had finally made the right decision—or perhaps had allowed the right decision to be made.

She waited until after lunch (a fresh mouse for her and a plate of sandwiches for the family) and at the agreed-upon time darted off a couple houses down the street where she could untransform without being seen. She walked back up the street in November chill in her black robes and a hat that she hoped would be inconspicuous enough. Coming up to the house as if it were her first time seeing it, she rang the doorbell (such an odd way to announce oneself, she thought).

A tall, brown-haired man answered the door and looked her up and down, assessing Minerva, she could tell, as the second magical person he had ever met besides the children—goodness, and Albus with his eccentric mode of dress had been the first.

“Good afternoon. Mr. Granger, I presume?” she said.

“Yes. You must be Professor McGonagall,” Dan replied warmly, shaking her hand. At this point, he was glad to see that not everyone in the magical world looked as absurd as Albus Dumbledore, although the witch’s robes could hardly be called the height of fashion. “Please come in.”

He led the way to the living room, where Minerva was introduced to a matching mother and daughter, and the family’s newly adopted son. She couldn’t help but stare at the boy. Even at his age, he was a spitting image for another boy who had been her best student in many a year not a decade earlier—except for the eyes, of course. When she saw him staring back at her, she blinked slowly at him, and he returned the gesture. She smiled, and the boy nervously smiled back. It was far too rare that she met someone who actually understood how to communicate with a cat. After all, the students’ cats mostly stayed in the dorms, and none of Filch’s had ever been much for conversation; most of her fellow humans were completely oblivious, though perhaps she could change that here.

“Have a seat,” Emma Granger said when they were all acquainted. “Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please—milk, no sugar,” she answered. Back in human form, she felt the need to get the taste of rodent out of her mouth.

Emma brought the tea, and Minerva sipped it thoughtfully and said, “Mr. and Mrs. Granger, before we begin, I must apologise for my role in facilitating the mistreatment that Harry has suffered. I had warned Professor Dumbledore that his relatives were wholly unsuited as guardians, but at the time, I trusted his judgement. I see now that I should have taken a firmer hand, or else followed up afterwards.”

The Grangers sat and processed this for a moment. She could tell that they were rightfully unhappy with the news, but Emma told her, “Well, at least you were trying to look out for him. There were clearly a great deal more mistakes made than just your own.”

Inwardly, she was relieved, but she nodded and turned her attention to the boy. “Harry,” she said with what, to her, was a warm smile, “I understand you recently spent quite some time living as a cat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Becoming an animagus is normally extremely difficult. I have never known a witch or wizard to complete the transformation with less than a year of intense study. I will understand if you don’t wish to dredge up unpleasant memories, but I wonder if might you be able to tell me precisely how you were first able to change into a cat.”

Harry looked to his new parents, who nodded to him, and he nervously began to tell her. Minerva fought to control her anger at his description of his relatives and listened in cool assessment. If she had hoped for some new insight into the animagus transformation, she was disappointed. His explanation was textbook accidental magic: intense fear and an overpowering desire to escape. The precise form that the magic took ought to have been impossible…but was it really? There were few real limits to accidental magic. She wouldn’t have batted an eye if his escape had taken the form of apparition or disillusionment, both very advanced skills. The boy might have just stumbled upon a rare variation.

No, the real puzzle was how he was able to replicate the feat. “It is very impressive that you could achieve such a feat of magic at your age, Mr. Potter,” she said. “Could you then demonstrate this skill to me?”

Harry looked, and Dan nodded to him again. He lowered his eyes and frowned in concentration for a few seconds, and then his form was replaced by a small black kitten.

Minerva was shocked. Albus had told her he had seen him transform, but she had assumed that it would take a few minutes of meditation. The boy was nothing like a novice; he looked well practised, and by the time he came to Hogwarts, he would probably be able to make the change instantly on command.

“Quicker than I expected, Harry,” she said. “Pardon me, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, but since the matter is at hand, I think it might be better if Harry and I continue this conversation without the species barrier.”

“Do you mean you’re going to—?” Dan started.

“Indeed.” With that, Minerva changed into a grey tabby cat with prominent black stripes around her eyes. She noted that Harry’s form had no marking for his glasses and wondered if it was because he first changed before he got the glasses. Or perhaps it was just that they matched his hair.

She relaxed her usual stiff posture and took a more neutral body position, but Harry started back all the same and lay low, watching her warily with his ears pricked up and his tail lowered. As a kitten wandering alone, she knew he probably hadn’t had too many good experiences with other cats. She lowered her own posture a little, and they exchanged blinks again to reassure him that everything was still alright.

Now it was time to really investigate. She had partially used Harry as an excuse to change into cat form, as he was only one of many things she wanted to check out. Using her well-honed feline sixth sense, she regarded the family carefully. She had noticed that the tom and queen—ah, there she went again, so easy to fall into the cat’s thought patterns—that Dan and Emma, who only stared when Harry changed, still flinched a little when a grown woman did the same, while Hermione laughed with glee and clapped her hands a couple of times. They were clearly new to magic, but they were doing an admirable job of adjusting to it so quickly, and if Albus was to be believed, they were learning all they could so as not to be caught out behind. Indeed, she had seldom seen any muggle parents take such news so well, let alone anyone who had had to worry about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

What Minerva suspected as a human, she could now confirm as a cat. She sensed no duplicity from the Grangers, nothing to trip her feline sense for the untrustworthy. They genuinely cared for Harry, and they already thought of him as their own son. It was plain to see to her in the way they carried themselves: though barely visible to humans, cats could pick up a fantastic amount of information from body language. And from smell. The Granger house smelled…like family. Looking past the smells of food and some sterile smells that might have been associated with teeth healing, joy, comfort, and love permeated the air. There was plenty of anxiety, too, but no dislike, no serious division.

The other part was to check over Harry himself. Verbal communication was quite rudimentary for cats, but it was usable. Minerva meowed something that roughly translated to, Boy-Kitten, follow, please, before she climbed down off the chair.

Harry took his defensive position again in surprise for a moment upon hearing her “speak.” Apparently, the other cats he had met had not been much for conversation, either. But he followed her off the sofa.

Only a few steps away, just far enough to have room, the two cats circled around each other. Minerva radiated an air of friendliness through her body language, which Harry was surprised he could pick up on. He let her in close enough that she could smell him clearly. He was a very anxious boy, from the smell, which was only to be expected, but he also smelled genuinely happy, curious, and comfortable in his new home.

Harry also got a clear smell from Minerva, but he stepped back as he tried to process it. He gave a meow that translated to, I don’t understand smells.

Smells are hard, she meowed back. You will learn with practice. How did you live outside? It was as good a time as any to get his side of the story unfiltered. After all it was hard to lie as a cat and even harder to lie to a cat.

Ate mice and food humans didn ’t want. Slept anywhere it was warm. Tried to find a human-servant, but found a family instead.

Minerva smiled, as much as a cat could, at the kitten’s natural use of the feline word for “owner.” She had forgotten how easy it was talking to a fellow animagus. His simple explanation conveyed much more about his feelings for life on the road, and even a few of the details, than the words alone. Be careful outside, she warned him. Loud-rolling-things are the worst predators.

Harry nodded his head at that, causing Hermione and even their parents a little bit to giggle at what looked like a perfectly normal conservation carried out entirely in meows.

What is your new family like? she continued.

Harry perked up, and his tail bent into a downward-facing arc with excitement. Sire and Dam are very nice. Don’t hiss and scratch like old parents’  bad litter-mates. Help groom and feed me and new Girl-Litter-Mate. Girl-Litter-Mate is smart. She is shy and likes human word-papers, but we make friends together. She likes cats, too.

Any human could have seen that last bit. As for Minerva, she could smell the joy coming off the kitten. The boy did like it here, and he loved his new family. It was a sense as clear as she could have got from talking to him in human form all afternoon. She twitched her tail with relief that the problem of his disastrous upbringing was being resolved so well. Now for the other issue. Is Old Wizard nice to you? she asked.

Old Wizard hides a lot. Thinks about many other things. But sorry he messed up and protects us from Bad Wizard. Gives look-memories of old parents.

Minerva nodded. She wondered if Albus had any idea how much the boy had picked up from him. I will visit sometimes. You tell me if Old Wizard causes trouble. Harry hesitated, but nodded back. She changed back to human form and turned to the others. “Well,” she said, “I am very glad to see that Mr. Potter has found a loving and welcoming family.”

Even though they had seen the conversation for themselves, Dan and Emma were surprised that it contained that much substance. Hermione was clearly brimming with questions. They looked to Harry, but the kitten was still there and had started licking his paws. Minerva made a note to give them some tips on preventing hairballs.

“Harry,” Emma called. The kitten changed back to human form. “He’s been doing that a lot,” she said. “He doesn’t change back until we call him.”

“He’s been waking up as a cat every other day, too,” Dan added.

“Hmm, that is a little unusual,” Minerva said. “Harry, could you show me where you have been sleeping?”

“Yes ma’am.” He led her to the guest bedroom that was slowly being converted to a little boy’s room. It didn’t look quite lived-in, yet, but it didn’t look out of the ordinary.

Minerva had a suspicion that it wasn’t the room. “Can you show me how you sleep?” she asked as the Grangers fell in behind her in the hall.

“Mm-hmm.” The boy flopped down onto the bed, adjusted his limbs a little, then lay still on his stomach.

“Ah, that’s simple, then,” she said. “You’re still sleeping like a cat.” He pushed himself part-way back up and looked back at her. “Harry, I know it will be more uncomfortable for you, but you should try to sleep on your back. It will help you get used to being human again.”

Harry rolled over and tried lying on his back for a few moments, but he quickly sat up.

“That’s alright, Harry, it will take some time to adjust.” She turned to Dan and Emma when they returned to the living room: “I’m not surprised to see cat-like behaviour after spending so long in that form. Some animal traits always persist, but you may wish to help Harry suppress the more obvious ones.” And she explained the basics of how cats interact with those around them: the association of prolonged eye contact with aggression, a slow blink or other ways of showing vulnerability as a sign of trust, huddling in a small space to withdraw, and, of course, rubbing and stroking as a sign of affection. There was a lot more, but there would be a lot fewer headaches and less emotional distress if they understood those first few things, and she was pleased to see that the family was absorbing them well.

The Grangers responded with a few of Harry’s idiosyncrasies that they had observed: sunning himself in the window, occasionally stalking around the house on all fours, licking his hands when he was bored or distracted. They were all perfectly normal for a cat, but they looked more than a little odd for a human. They had noticed his propensity to sleep a lot, too, but it was hard to tell if that was his feline side or if Harry just wasn’t a morning person. Minerva agreed that the more obvious behaviour might need some active correction, and they should focus on that, while the minor things could safely slide. Of course, they should watch carefully how Harry was around other people, since there was a fine line between eccentric and just plain crazy.

Once they had got the matters of cat-animagus care settled, Hermione finally got a chance to ask her question: “Professor, can you teach me how to turn into a cat?”

Minerva was caught off guard for a moment, and it took a couple more moments to register why. No child, even at Hermione’s age, would think to ask such a question in the wizarding world, but it was a perfectly logical question for a muggle-born who had never been taught otherwise. “I’m afraid not, Hermione,” she said. “For one thing, your animagus form is determined by your personality and animal nature, if you even have the innate skill to do it. Yours would most likely not be a cat. But more importantly, learning the skill the normal way is very difficult and can be dangerous…I might be willing to consider it if you had a very good reason.” After all, James and Sirius hadn’t exactly been discreet about their questions. “But certainly not before you began attending at Hogwarts.”

“Oh…” Hermione said in disappointment.

“Transforming is a very rare skill,” Minerva explained. “Very few witches and wizards go to the trouble of learning it. I only did myself as part of my studies on transfiguration. You’ll have a great deal of more useful magic to learn when you come to school.”

Hermione looked partially appeased by that, and Minerva turned back to her parents. “Now, Professor Dumbledore tells me Harry is doing well in school?” she said. “Catching up with the other children and making friends?”

“Surprisingly well, considering he missed two months,” Emma said. “He’s still adjusting, of course, but Hermione’s been helping him learn to read, so he has that going for him, and as far as we can tell, he’s been enjoying himself.”

“That’s good to hear, Mrs. Granger. Have you had any other problems with him so far?”

“Well…it’s not a problem so much as it’s unusual,” Dan said. “Harry is probably the only little boy we know who doesn’t have a sweet tooth. We don’t eat all that much sugar in this house, Professor, but Harry claims that a lot of what we do eat tastes sweet to him. Now, I don’t if that’s because he didn’t get that from his relatives, or…”

Minerva was caught between a smile and a frown. “Given what I’ve heard, that is certainly possible,” she said, “but I think there is a simpler explanation.”

“What’s that?”

“Cats cannot taste sugar.”

“Really? I did not know that.”

“Indeed, Mr. Granger, and an animagus’s tastes often carry over into their human form. I usually find typical dinner fare sweet enough for my tastes, rather than desert. At Harry’s age, it will be different, but even so, am I right in thinking that Harry has also shown a preference for meat?”

“Definitely,” Emma confirmed. “Red meat especially.”

“I thought so. Cats are almost entirely carnivorous, even more so than dogs. You may have some…unique challenges in teaching him to eat a balanced diet.”

Because having a son who can turn into a cat isn’t unique enough, they thought. “Thank you for warning us,” Emma said. “Is there any way we can contact you if we have more questions?”

“A letter addressed to me at Hogwarts and sent through the muggle post system will be delivered, although it is not as fast as an owl. Please feel free to contact me anytime. I will be happy to help Harry with any troubles he may be having, especially feline-related.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Dan repeated.

“Now, there is one other thing.” She paused to make sure all four of them were listening. “It is very important that no one finds out that Harry is an animagus, even in the magical world. All animagi are required by law to register with the Ministry of Magic, but Professor Dumbledore and I agree that with the unique risks to him, he would be safer if it is not known. He must also be careful in using it so as not to cause trouble. The penalty for failure to register by itself is only a fine, but the Ministry deals harshly with any other crimes committed by an animagus, registered or not. We will support him if such a matter ever comes up, but that will only go so far.”

Dan and Emma paled a little at being advised to actively defy the law, by a respected teacher, no less, even if they could see the wisdom of it. They wanted to instill their children with a healthy respect for authority, but then again, from what they had heard about wizarding politics, maybe a healthy scepticism would be better. They stepped back and whispered to each other for a minute. It was hard to hear, but Minerva could tell they were uncomfortable with it, and not without reason. She picked up something about having five years to think about it.

“Professor, we don’t anticipate any problems with that if that’s how things are set up,” Dan said carefully when they concluded. “And we’ll certainly teach Harry to be discreet about using his ability.”

“Very good, Mr. Granger. Harry, I like your new family very much. I know they will be very good for you. I hope to hear good things about you in the coming years.” Harry smiled at her. “And Hermione?”

“Yes, ma’am?”

“You’re Harry’s older sister, now, and as such, I expect you to keep him out of trouble.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the girl said with a grin.

“Well, I must be returning to school,” Minerva said, shaking the Grangers’ hands on the way out. “Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Harry called after her and waved, to the surprise of his family. Meeting another cat seemed to have done wonders for his shyness.

Minerva left the meeting with a rare, if subtle, smile on her face. It had been a hard year, between losing her husband last spring to Venomous Tentacula and then Albus managing to misplace Harry Potter in more ways than one, but at least the boy was as well off now as she ever could have hoped. She was humming to herself all the way back to the castle.

December 1985

A small, red Austin Metro pulled into the driveway at the Granger residence, the back seat filled with luggage and colourfully-wrapped boxes. An elderly couple climbed out and within seconds was hit by a brown-haired missile screaming, “Grandma! Grandpa!” Grandpa Granger was ready, though, and scooped Hermione up in his arms when she reached him—well, mostly ready, she was starting to get too big for this, the way his back was protesting.

“Hey there, Princess,” he said, twirling her around once before setting her down.

“How’s my favourite granddaughter?” Grandma said as she gave the little girl a hug.

“I’m your only granddaughter, Grandma,” Hermione shot back, completing their usual exchange.

The three of them looked back to the front door, where Dan and Emma stood, Emma holding a reassuring hand on Harry’s shoulder.

“And this must be little Harry,” Grandma said as they approached.

“Yes, ma’am—Grandma,” Harry said as she grasped him firmly by the shoulders. He was trying not to stare too much, but it was hard when he was meeting new people and harder when they grabbed hold of him like that. He recognised Grandma and Grandpa from the pictures, of course, but it was a different matter to meet them in person.

Grandma eyed him up and down, noting how small he still looked. She frowned a little at the uncombed hair and the scar on his forehead, but she lightened up and gave him a reasonably gentle hug. “Well, it’s good to meet you, Harry. Now I have a favourite grandson, too.”

“Come here, Sport,” Grandpa said and threw an arm around Harry. He fought the urge to push him away. Even after a month and a half as a human, he still preferred a little scratching behind the ears to an overzealous hug, but he could mostly only get that from Mum.

It was strange having grandparents, he thought. None of his birth grandparents were still alive, nor were Uncle Vernon’s parents. It was strange being able to add two more friendly faces to his new family, at least for the few times when they could come down from Manchester.

“So you finally went and had another kid, Dan?” Grandpa told his son as he ruffled Harry’s hair.

Dan smiled. “Yes, well, you know how it is. He showed up on our porch like a little lost kitten, and we just had to keep him.”

The rest of the Grangers suppressed a snicker at that. They had told Dan’s parents a little about Harry being abused, but nothing of the rest of the story. They had been annoyed to learn that grandparents were something of a grey area with regard to the Statute of Secrecy. They weren’t really supposed to be told about magic, but the Ministry would look the other way if no one else found out. But since the only magic they could actually demonstrate was Harry’s animagus ability, which was supposed to be even more secret, Dan and Emma reluctantly admitted to each other that it wouldn’t do much good to tell them. When the kids went off to Hogwarts, it might be another matter, though.

“Come on, let’s get the car unloaded,” Dan said.

Grandma and Grandpa carried their luggage inside, while Dan and Emma helped with the rest, being sure to place the presents under the Christmas tree in preparation for the festivities two days hence.

The Dursley family was not having a happy Christmas season. Harry had been lucky enough that the magistrate allowed him to be interviewed on video without appearing in court for the trial. He had not seen his relatives once since he had run away and reportedly never intended to again. That was the one bright spot in their ordeal.

Despite their protests of innocence, with Harry’s interview and the doctor’s report in hand, the case against Vernon and Petunia Dursley was quickly closed. Their continued insistence that they were “very concerned because our nephew ran away,” courtesy of Dumbledore’s memory charm, came across not inaccurately as a blatant lie. Even the magistrate personally expressed his disgust at their behaviour. He had seen objectively much worse cases of abuse before, but keeping the boy in the cupboard was a new one on him. In the end, Petunia was sentenced to nine years in prison for child neglect, and Vernon was sentenced to the maximum ten years for neglect and assault, both of them receiving long sentences for singling out Harry in particular and hiding him from the authorities. The prison guards quickly made sure word got around their respective facilities about what they were in for.

Dudley had been sent to live with his Aunt Marge, who put him to work helping raise her dogs and generally took a much stricter hand with him hand than her brother, believing he needed to be “reformed” of his parents’ mistakes. (It was all Petunia’s bad influence, of course. She should have known with the way her sister had turned out.) Marge sold Number 4 Privett Drive to an older childless couple whom all the neighbours agreed were far more respectable than the previous residents. Hardly anyone noticed when the old cat lady, Arabella Figg, also sold her home to move back to the country.

Harry was awakened on the 25th of December by his exuberant sister jumping on the bed.

“Wake up, sleepyhead, it’s Christmas!”

He heard her run back out of the room and down the hall to wake their parents and grandparents. Harry groaned and fumbled on the bedside table for his glasses. Christmas had never been very happy for him, but then he remembered that he had seen some of the presents under the tree with his name on them, so it was an improvement over last year. Actually, it had been a much better time than last year already. Everyone in the family was going out of their way to make up for the past four years and give him a truly memorable Christmas. They had started after Grandma and Grandpa arrived, making Grandma’s “secret recipe” Christmas cookies. Then last night had featured a splendid Christmas Eve dinner, lots of laughs singing Christmas carols badly, and a candlelight church service that Harry had enjoyed far more than he expected. The few times the Dursleys had taken him to church had always seemed to feature snide comments about “freaks’ like him getting struck by lightning.

He rolled over onto his stomach and stretched. By now, this was usually the most cat-like part of his day—not without some effort, but at least he was waking up in human form on most days. That would have been awkward with Grandma and Grandpa around.

He checked the clock, now that he could actually tell time. It was 6:43 AM, which Mum and Dad would later say showed admirable restraint on Hermione’s part. Well, he could tell his sister wouldn’t be deterred, so he stumbled, bleary-eyed, out of his bedroom.

Grandma and Grandpa were already up and were snickering as Hermione dragged an equally bleary-eyed Mum and Dad out of their bedroom. Dad shared a sympathetic look with his son when he saw the boy’s excitement was also tempered by the early hour. Harry was improving, but he was by no means back on a human sleep schedule.

“Happy Christmas, everyone!” Hermione exclaimed.

“Mmm…Happy Christmas,” Mum replied, with the rest of the family haphazardly repeating her.

“Come on, let’s go open presents!” Hermione dashed off down the stairs. Unstoppable force, that one, they thought. Both parents blamed the other’s side of the family for that trait.

Harry followed Hermione down the stairs, for some reason half-expecting to see Albus Dumbledore dressed up as Father Christmas in the living room, but it was not to be. He soon noticed, though, that there were more presents under the tree than there were last night. On closer inspection, he also noticed that some of the new presents had his name on them, which honestly made him more suspicious than anything else. Either there were some issues with Santa’s naughty and nice lists, or something else was going on.

But still, presents! That was something he could get behind—probably would have already if he had been more awake. Uncle Vernon had given him a sock last year—one sock, as a gag—so he couldn’t technically say he had never got Christmas presents before, but this Christmas was already better than the previous four put together.

Luckily, the adults didn’t make them wait until after breakfast, although Mum did bring out a plate of toast for the family. Sitting around the Christmas tree, they cajoled Hermione to pass out the gifts to everyone, with Harry helping a little, although he was distracted by how large his pile was growing. In the end, both children had a substantial pile of gifts, roughly equal, and all of the adults had a few.

“Why don’t you open one first, Harry?” Mum said.

Harry nodded, wide-eyed, and considered his pile. He snatched a present off the top, one of them that had mysteriously appeared from Father Christmas, and cautiously tore off the paper. By Dudley’s standards it would have been fairly mundane—a simple toy truck. In fact, it wouldn’t have even stood out among the several toys Mum and Dad had bought him when he moved in last month, but it was his first real present, and he laughed with joy because he couldn’t think of anything else to do as he held it up.

There was a click and flash of light, and he looked over to see Dad winding the film on the camera. He saw grins all around as his entire family looked as pleased as he was about the situation, and he silently thanked again whatever power had brought him here.

“Well, it looks like someone likes it,” Grandma said as Harry started to roll the truck on the carpet.

“Can’t beat the classics, can you?” Grandpa added.

“Okay, Hermione, your turn,” Dad said, saving Harry from having to figure out what happened next.

Hermione picked a small, rectangular parcel off her pile and carefully unwrapped it to reveal a copy of one of the old Winnie the Pooh books. She read off the title and then placed it by her feet as the start of what would clearly become a stack of them.

Mum, Dad, Grandma, and Grandpa each took their turns opening gifts from each other, although Hermione had also given them small trinkets. Harry, being new to the family and less experienced with gift giving, was off the hook on that. A few presents later, it turned out that Father Christmas had given Harry some random toys and had given Hermione some random books and toys. But when Harry reached a present labelled from Grandma and Grandpa, things began to change.

It was a fairly large box, easily large enough for his kitten form to fit inside, but it was light-weight, and when he opened it, he found a large, brown teddy bear. What really caught his eye, though, was that the bear had his name embroidered in red across its chest. There was no question about this toy. It was his. After all the grief Dudley had always given him by hogging the toys, that meant more to Harry than his grandparents knew.

“We didn’t know what kind of toys you liked,” Grandma explained, “but we thought every little boy needs a teddy bear.”

“It’s great!” Harry said. “Thanks, Grandma. Thanks, Grandpa.” In a move that shocked everyone, he got up and hugged both of his grandparents unprompted.

“Oh, you’re very welcome, dear,” Grandma said as she hugged him back.

Harry sat back down, still holding the bear. Meanwhile, Hermione’s came to one of her presents that was the wrong size and shape to be a book, and when she opened it, all she could say was, “Oh, wow, that’s a lot of colours.” After all, it’s not every day that one receives a box of 72 crayons.

They kept going, and as they got toward the end of the piles, Harry also came to a rectangular present that was the wrong size and shape for a book, but is his case, it turned out to be a video tape like the ones Dudley liked and his aunt and uncle never let him watch. “The Sword in the Stone,” Harry grinned as he successfully read the title.

“It’s about King Arthur,” Dad said. “We’ve got the book around here somewhere, but it might be a few years before you’re ready to read it.”

Harry nodded as he examined the box. He couldn’t help but notice that the picture on the front included a skinny little boy, an owl, and an old man who looked surprisingly like…

“That looks like Mr. Dumbledore.”

“Let me see,” Hermione ordered, leaning over to look at the box. “It does!” she agreed.

“Yes, Mum and I thought so, too. We’ll have to ask him about it,” Dad said with a wink.

“Who’s Mr. Dumbledore?” Grandpa asked.

“Harry’s caseworker, of all people,” Dad told him. “Long white hair and beard, and you wouldn’t believe the way that man dresses. I’ve seen it, and I still don’t believe it.”

“Ahh…” From what Grandpa had heard about Harry’s past, he had to wonder if that explained a few things, but he kept that thought to himself.

“Can we watch it today?” Hermione asked with excitement.

“Sure we can. We’ll watch it this afternoon,” Dad said. “Why don’t you go ahead and open another one, now.”

“Oh, right.” Hermione picked up a large present, and a fairly heavy one for its size. She peeled the paper off and gasped in surprise to see not one book, but seven, which were thicker ones than she had been reading so far. She looked the top of the box and identified the gift: a complete boxed set of The Chronicles of Narnia. There had, unsurprisingly, been a theme toward fantasy in the children’s gifts this year. Hermione hugged Mum and Dad in thanks and set the box beside her stack of individual books.

“That should keep her busy for a solid month,” Mum said, considering that it was probably above even Hermione’s prodigious reading level.

“Ha, if we’re lucky,” Dad said.

Mum put on a mock frown. “We’ve created a monster, haven’t we?”

“You’re just figuring that out now?”

Mum broke and chuckled at that before saying, “Go on, Harry, open another one.”

Harry picked up a crudely-wrapped cubical box. It was very light for its size, and he saw that the tag said it was from Hermione. At least he was pretty sure it did—he still wasn’t a hundred percent sure about how to spell her name. Wondering what his sister could possibly have got him—perhaps another stuffed animal—he tore off the paper and opened the lid, and when he did, he burst out laughing.

Inside the box was a giant, multi-coloured ball of yarn. He took it out, eyes wide, and started batting it with his hands with a smile before he remembered that there was company present. Hermione and Mum both smiled at him. They seemed to be the only ones in on the joke, though, since Dad hid his face with his palm, and Grandma and Grandpa simply looked confused.

“A ball of yarn?” Grandma asked.

Luckily, Mum knew this was coming, so she had an answer prepared: “Hermione is convinced that Harry was raised by cats. And Harry always has to encourage her, so we thought it was the perfect gift.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” Harry said. His sister grinned at him.

“Raised by cats, eh?” Grandpa joked. “How are you at catching mice?”

Harry didn’t notice his parents tense up at that. Not quite getting the joke nor realising how close he was coming to a forbidden topic, he just smiled and said, “Pretty good.”

Hermione grimaced a little, knowing that her brother was being completely serious, but the tension eased when Grandpa roared with laughter. “Dan, you never told us he was that sharp,” he said.

“Well, he…does have his moments.”

Mum and Dad were silently relieved when Hermione came to her next gift, one from her grandparents, but the situation unravelled further when she opened it and revealed a stuffed Scottie dog. It had a red ribbon tied around its neck embroidered with her name.

“Thanks, Grandma. Thanks, Grandpa…Look, Harry.” She waved the dog at him and started barking: “Ruff! Ruff! Ruff ruff ruff!”

After the last joke, everyone laughed at that one. Harry playfully batted the dog away. His sister persisted, hoping she could get him to hiss at it, but Harry found he didn’t mind the dog so much for some reason. True, dogs tended to cause trouble for cats, but this one was pretty small, even using his imagination. Or maybe he just had a soft spot for black dogs.

But now, Harry was down to his last gift, and his Mum suppressed a groan as she remembered what that gift was. And it had seemed like such a good idea at the time. Harry hadn’t received many books. After all, he was still in picture books, and Hermione already had a whole library of those for him to read, but this was a new title called…

“If You Give a Mouse a Cookie,” Harry read off, to the snickers of his sister and grandparents. He paused and thought for a moment as he looked at the picture of a mouse eating cookies and milk. “Will it taste better?” he said innocently.

That was too much. Even Mum and Dad laughed at that one. Hermione was literally rolling on the floor, despite her usual disgust for the thought of eating mice, Grandma nearly fell out of her seat, and Grandpa was laughing so hard he could barely breathe. Harry wasn’t sure what was so funny. After all, he knew the mouse wouldn’t taste better because cats couldn’t taste sugar. But the laughter was so infectious that he was quickly caught up in it. In fact, he couldn’t remember when he’d laughed so hard before. It was a long time until the family calmed down enough for Hermione to open her final gift.

Harry’s gift to Hermione, the lone gift he had given, was obviously wrapped with their mother’s handiwork, but he had helped pick it out at the store. It was much smaller than his ball of yarn—small and rectangular and shaped suspiciously like many of her other gifts, but it wasn’t yet another chapter book.

It was a small, red book bound in faux-leather. The pages were blank, for on the cover, the word “Diary” was embossed in gold script, and above it, the word “HERMIONE’S” was spelt out in reasonably nice-looking gold stickers. For a six-year-old, it was a pretty high-quality diary, and her eyes lit up when she saw it.

“Harry, it’s wonderful! Thank you!” Hermione exclaimed. Without warning, she pounced on him and hugged him. He tried to squirm away, but as she had learnt to do surprisingly quickly, she reached a hand up and scratched him behind his right ear, which soothed him for a moment. The gesture was not missed by their grandparents who started laughing again.

“Uh, you’re welcome, Hermione,” Harry mumbled, trying to remember his manners. Fortunately, his sister let him go before he could cause a scene.

After a lavish Christmas dinner that was probably the most Harry had ever eaten in one sitting and a truly mesmerising time watching The Sword in the Stone, not to mention playing with new toys and starting in on new books, Harry laid down with his teddy bear for the best sleep he’d had since joining the Granger Family.

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Granger,

On the matter of your most recent questions, I believe it will be more convenient if we speak via floo. I hope you will be able to meet at 4 in the afternoon on Saturday, the 28th to address these matters. Send a reply with the owl if there are any problems.

Happy Christmas,

Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore

So the Granger Family was gathered around the fireplace on Saturday afternoon, waiting for one Mr. Dumbledore’s most unusual appearances. The children waited with excited anticipation, having just recently been told what this meeting was about. No one screamed this time when the flames turned green and the grey-bearded face appeared in their midst, but the looks on the Grangers’ faces were still clearly unsettled by the appearance.

“Good afternoon,” said Albus Dumbledore. “I hope your Christmas was pleasant.”

Emma smiled weakly. “I’d like to say “magical,” but that might confuse things.”

This earned her a small chuckle. “Indeed. Harry, I am glad to see you’ve settled into your new home.” The boy was currently sitting at his mother’s feet, wear a new jumper, and, most amusingly, playing with a ball of yarn. He would have to tell Minerva. Perhaps she would actually laugh at that one.

Harry looked up and said, “Yes, sir.”

“Mr. Dumbledore?” Hermione said from her oversize armchair, setting aside her book. She was very interested to learn about Harry, but there was something that had been nagging at her since Christmas.

“Yes, Hermione?”

“Did Merlin really turn Arthur into all those animals?”

Even with Dumbledore’s splendid mind, it took him a moment to switch gears at such an odd question. “Excuse me?”

“One of our films,” Dan explained. “The Sword in the Stone—”

“Ah…” The title clicked. He remembered the occasional young muggle-born asking the same thing in the sixties, and come to think of it in the forties as well, when the book was published. “No, I’m afraid not. That was merely an invention of muggle storytellers.”

“Did he discover Bermuda?” Harry said.

“What? I don’t believe so, although I might wish to consult a biography of Merlin on that point. Mr. and Mrs. Granger, in your letter, you asked about Harry’s status in our world—”

“Not exactly,” Dan clarified. “We asked about what you said last month: Harry inherited a seat on your…Wizengamot—your, what, magical Lords? Does that mean Harry is a Lord in your world?”

“The terminology does not correspond exactly, but yes. As the last surviving Potter, Harry is the Head of the Noble House of Potter and a Lord of the Wizengamot. However, unlike the muggle Lords, the title is normally only used in the Wizengamot chambers and official correspondence.”

Hermione squealed briefly. Normally used or not, her brother was a Lord, and nothing was going to ruin that for her.

“And this seat, is it vacant now?” Dan continued.

“No, there is no need to worry about that. As Harry’s magical guardian, I appointed his second cousin Andromeda Tonks as his proxy until he comes of age. She was his closest living relative who was…suitable.”

“I have cousins?” Harry perked up.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, you’re going to have to back up for a minute,” Emma talked over him. She had started writing in that notebook of hers again. “Magical guardian? What’s that?”

Dumbledore looked a bit miffed at the digression, but he answered calmly, “Because muggle parents—typically—have very little knowledge or involvement in the magical world, all muggle-born children are appointed a Guardian in Magical Affairs to oversee their upbringing. For students attending Hogwarts, that role falls to the Headmaster, unless there are special circumstances.”

“Which is you,” Dan said darkly, groaning inwardly at the thought of the old wizard being personally responsible for the raising of more children.

“Indeed. In Harry’s case, he was an orphan, and his godfather was…unavailable, so it fell to the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot to appoint a guardian for him.”

“And he appointed you?”

“Well…in a manner of speaking. I myself sit as Chief Warlock.”

“And, of course, you appointed yourself,” Emma said, barely restraining herself from adding, Why am I not surprised? “And what else does the Chief Warlock do?”

“Merely preside over the Wizengamot,” Dumbledore said, not a little dismissively. “I believe the nearest equivalent in the muggle government would be the Lord Chancellor.”

“What!” Dan, Emma, and Hermione all shouted at once. Harry just looked around, confused.

“You’re a Cabinet minister?” Dan asked in shock before he forced himself to remember the small size of the magical world.

“That would be quite impossible, Mr. Granger, as the Ministry of Magic has no Cabinet.”

“Even so, you say you’re effectively the Lord Chancellor…and the Education Secretary, or close enough, and the head of MI-5. Do you have any other titles we should know about?”

“Well, I’ve never heard it put quite that way, but there is one other. I also sit as Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards, although that is considerably less impressive than it sounds in terms of actual influence.”

Dan and Emma paled at that one. “International Confederation of Wizards?” Emma said, writing down the name. “And that’s like, what, Secretary General of the UN or something?” She barely wanted to think about what more powerful sort of position it might mean in the magical world. It felt like a step short of having entertained royalty and not known it.

Luckily, Dumbledore quashed that notion, at least somewhat: “That might be a charitable interpretation, from what I understand of muggle politics. In all honesty, the only thing ICW has ever been united about is the Statute of Secrecy.”

“Still, you’re basically the most politically powerful wizard in the world, and you also run a school on the side?” Dan said. Something seriously unsettled him about this. It seemed like the more they dug into Dumbledore’s professional life, the less it made sense. What was really going on here?

“No, no, you misunderstand me,” the old wizard said. “I am the Headmaster of Hogwarts first. I merely make a hobby of moderating the fascinating political debates that occur in our world.”

“But how did you come by all those titles in the first place?”

Unexpectedly, he smiled at this, and his eyes twinkled as he answered, “When you have lived as long as I have, Mr. Granger, you tend to accumulate quite a number of unusual things.”

Dan and Emma couldn’t help but stare at each other at the blatant evasion. By silent agreement, they dropped the subject. Something told them that continuing down this line would be unproductive or worse. The kids were also staring at them, now, looking for some clue as to what was going on.

“Okay, then…” Emma consulted her notes again. “Back to magical guardians. Is there any way we could take over that roll for our children?”

“Unfortunately not,” Dumbledore said. “You of course do have broad rights as legal guardians in the magical world, but the law requires all magical children to also have a witch or wizard overseeing their affairs.”

“I see,” Emma said darkly. She flipped to the back of her notebook to where she had started a to-do list, to which she added, Work to change anti-muggle laws, and Investigate magical guardian options other than Dumbledore. The wizard in question showed a touch of nervousness as he wondered what she was writing. “There. Now, you said Harry had a cousin whom you appointed as a proxy.” She motioned for Harry to get up off the floor and sit beside her. “I don’t think you’ve told us anything about Harry’s living family. What are they like?”

Dumbledore’s face fell. “Not good, I’m afraid,” he said grimly, turning to face her son. “Harry, your grandmother, Dorea Potter, was born into the Black family, and while your grandmother was a good woman, most of the Blacks are known as dark wizards who don’t like muggles or muggle-borns.”

“Why, sir?” Harry said.

“Because many old families are more worried about holding onto their power than anything else. They don’t like new families coming into the wizarding world. As it happens, you have four living second cousins through your grandmother’s family, but I’m sorry to say that three of them worked for Voldemort in some form or other.” Harry sucked in a sharp breath at so many of his own family turning on him—or at least on his birth parents—and being bad guys. Hermione didn’t look much better. “But the fourth one, Andromeda, is a good woman,” he continued. “She left her family and married a muggle-born wizard named Ted Tonks. She believes in fair treatment for muggles like your birth parents did, which is why I chose her to represent you on the Wizengamot.”

“Do you think we could meet her?” Emma asked. “We’d love to meet whatever family he has left.” Harry nodded enthusiastically. “And maybe she can teach Harry a few things about navigating wizarding politics before he reenters your world.”

“Oh, I don’t think there’s any need to worry Harry with things like that at his age, Mrs. Granger.”

“No, I think that’s actually a good idea,” Dan defended her.

“I have full confidence in Madam Tonks’s ability to manage his affairs until he comes of age. There really is no need—”

That’s what we’re afraid of, Dan thought. “Mr. Dumbledore,” he cut him off, “you wanted to keep Harry from too much exposure to his fame, which is good, but your plan would have him not learning about his heritage, and it sounds like that’s pretty important. Especially with him holding a peerage and having to deal with that pureblood politics you told us about.”

Harry was still looking back and forth between the adults, confused, but Hermione’s eyes narrowed. Their parents hadn’t said much about what they had talked about with Mr. Dumbledore before besides the threat from Voldemort, but she was starting to pick up on the fact that there were more subtle problems in the magical world.

“Isn’t it better if he learns about that early?” Dan continued. “And am I right in thinking these rich pureblood families I’ve heard so much about teach their children early?” The look on Dumbledore’s face made it clear the answer was yes.

“Besides, we still want to meet her anyway,” Emma gave him an out. “She is Harry’s only good magical family, after all.”

“His nearest magical family to be more precise—all of the old families are interrelated—but, yes, I can understand the sentiment,” he said. “I will enquire with Madame Tonks about visiting you, though perhaps sometime next summer would be best, when you will have more time available.”

After a look and a nod from her husband Emma said, “That would be acceptable. Thank you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry added.

“You’re quite welcome, my boy. Is there anything else you wished to discuss? No? Then I really must get back to my preparations for the spring term. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year,” the family replied.

The image of Dumbledore’s face vanished from the fireplace, and the flames changed back to their normal orange colour.

“I just had another one of those “What the heck just happened,” moments,” Dan said after a pause. It disturbed him to think that a conversation through the fireplace almost felt normal. He and Emma quickly got up and headed for the kitchen to process what they had learnt.

As soon as they left, Hermione slid out of her chair and whispered to Harry, “They always do that when something’s wrong. I’m gonna check it out.” She tiptoed over to the kitchen door—but not quietly enough.

“Hermione,” he mother called.

“Sorry, Mummy.” She ran back to her chair in embarrassment and opened her book again, but after about a minute, she had an idea. She looked up and grinned at her brother. “Harry, change to a cat and listen to what they’re saying,” she whispered.

Harry smiled back as he caught on. “Okay,” he whispered. After a few seconds’ concentration, he was on all fours and slunk over to the kitchen door. With his acute feline sense of hearing, he could make out every word.

“Talk about a steep learning curve,” Mum said, pouring herself a cup of tea. Harry could smell it from outside—Earl Grey.

“I know,” Dad replied. “I thought there was something up with Mr. Dumbledore before, but this…I don’t even understand it. It’s like he runs everything. How does that happen?”

“I don’t know. And he didn’t seem to want to talk about it either. He seems like a good enough guy and all, but it makes you wonder what he’s doing behind the scenes.”

“I just feel like we’re missing something. The more I look, the less it seems to add up.”

“Well, maybe this Madam Tonks can explain it. Or we can write Professor McGonagall—”

“We can ask, but they both work for Dumbledore.”

“I know, but—” She stopped as something caught her eye. Looking over, she saw a small, black ear poking out from behind the door. “Harry.”

There was a meow and a skitter of paws on the hardwood as the kitten sprinted away.

“They’re both in on this together, Dan,” Emma said with a chuckle. “Give our sweet, innocent daughter a brother, and look what happens.”

“Hey, this was your idea.”

“Oh, come on, you know you wanted him just as much as I did.”

“Yes, I know, dear…What about that Gringotts guy? They seem pretty independent.”

“Maybe, but they don’t seem like the type to talk politics, especially with customers.”

“Maybe not,” Dan said. “It’s odd, though. The pattern actually feels kind of familiar. It’s just so hard to place with the magic and all. It’s…it’s like…it’s small town politics,” he realised with a snap of his fingers. “Remember how there’s only ten thousand wizards in Britain? Their ministry has to be run like a town council—and it sounds like all the worst aspects of it, too. All the councillors are friends, they always help each other and get each other out of trouble, they all have important day jobs in the town, people hold multiple offices, everything runs on personal agendas…”

“My God, you’re right,” Emma said. “Everything we know about their civil war makes more sense that way. Including Dumbledore.”

“Especially Dumbledore. How else could he get away with what he did to Harry? It’s like they’re just letting him be the Local Education Officer, the Chief Constable, the Council Chairman, and an MP.”

“I think we need to go back over A History of Magic from the start. If it’s more of a town history than a national one…I wonder how much they think of it that way.”

“Hard to say. They do live it. The language may be different, but it sounds like that’s how they do things.”

“The question is how Dumbledore got so many titles on an international scale.”

“That is the question, isn’t it,” Dan concluded. “Unless it’s in the books, I think all we can do is ask around as we get the chance.”

Albus Dumbledore sat at his desk, wondering how his plans for Harry Potter had changed so much. The boy was sure to develop quite the independent streak with his new family if the parents were any indication. He supposed that was a good thing, on balance, but it certainly changed his calculus.

He had expected Harry Potter to arrive at Hogwarts in five and a half years, perhaps not having had the best childhood—certainly a sheltered one—but a decent one. He expected a shy boy, eager to learn, and with room to grow into his role as the Chosen One when he was old enough to deal with it. Instead, he had already escaped an abusive home and learnt a nearly-untraceable magical skill once thought impossible. Perhaps he would still turn out to be the shy type, like his new sister, but Albus doubted it.

He could see where things were going now. Under the Grangers’ guidance, Harry would rejoin the wizarding world as politically savvy as James Potter, with Lily Evans’s knack for standing up to people well-cultivated. Both were admittedly good qualities to prepare him to face Voldemort and the Death Eaters, but if the boy had also inherited his father’s penchant for shaking things up, well, he hoped the wizarding world would be ready for him.

Albus decided to head down to the Hog’s Head. Somehow, he felt like a conversation with Abe would be the less stressful part of his day.

January 1986

The two children were subdued as their parents drove them through the city streets after school. A warm December had given way to a bitterly cold winter, and it was under a cold, grey sky that they travelled to their destination.

The Grangers had been lucky enough to find a dojo in the Crawley area that was highly rated and respected—and that, though they were very reluctant to put it that way, had a good chance of getting the kids up to a credible black belt level (minus the physical strength) before they left for “boarding school” in five years.

Most children would be excited at starting karate classes—well, maybe not the young bookworm so much—but Harry Potter and Hermione Granger were deadly serious. To the world, they were just two more kids learning karate early as a useful life skill, but in secret, they knew the truth. Today was the day they would start learning how to defend themselves from Voldemort.

The dojo was one of the more traditional-looking clubs, where the instructors wore white gis and answered to “sensei.” An advanced class was just wrapping up, running through some moves that, to the kids at least, looked pretty impressive before filing out. At first glance, the club looked as serious as the two children, but it soon proved a bit lighter. The instructors were friendly and engaged with the children as they arrived. Harry and Hermione soon fell in line with about a dozen other children ranging in age from nine down to four, each wearing a plain white gi, and most of them looking happier than the pair, except for one or two who clearly just didn’t want to be there.

As Dan and Emma watched from the back with a few other parents, the lead instructor introduced himself as Sensei John and started right in, first teaching the students to stand at attention and bow.

“Okay, but this time, everyone do it together. Everyone bow and say, “Hello, Sensei John.’”

“Hello, Sensei John.” Most of the children mumbled it, or the smaller ones were too shy to speak, but Hermione’s voice rang out clearly. She may not have been the most outgoing sort, but she was a stickler for following instructions.

“Very good. Do you know why we do that…? It’s to show courtesy and respect. If the other teachers and I treat you nice, how are you going to treat us?”

“Nice,” a couple of kids said.

“That’s right. Now, courtesy and respect means that when I teach you karate, you have to use karate in a good way. And that means no punching your mum, your dad, your brother, your sister. That’s not nice, is it?”

“No,” a few voices answered.

“Say, “No, Sensei John.’”

“No, Sensei John.”

“Good. If you ever have to use karate outside of class, you only use it to stop people from hurting you, okay?”

Emma wondered if any of the other children would ever have any reason to use karate besides the occasional schoolyard bully. Meanwhile, her own children had to legitimately worry about bloodthirsty terrorists. She hated to admit it, but Dumbledore was right about one thing: they were far too young to have to deal with this—not that the terrorists cared.

After the introductions, the instructors taught the children a few basic stances and moves. Sensei John was a good teacher, the parents decided. He was good at making the lesson into a sort of game, while still getting the point across, and he was a big help in getting the kids to learn the moves correctly. The smaller ones were pretty uncoordinated, but they all made noticeable improvements over the course of the lesson. Harry also started to pick up his sister’s habit of answering the instructors clearly.

The highlight of the lesson was a mini-obstacle course designed to help them with speed and agility. The kids were soon encouraging each other as much as the instructors as they raced each other, and they all wound up having a lot of fun with it, even Harry and, to the bookworm’s own astonishment, Hermione.

At the end of the lesson, each child earned a white belt for their effort and respect, and Dan and Emma were glad to see their children were smiling just as much as the others. Worrying about dark wizards could wait a while longer yet.

March 1986

The Granger Family was eating breakfast before school when they heard the click of the mail slot and flop of letters on the doormat.

“Get the mail, Hermione,” said Dan from behind his paper.

“Make Harry get it,” Hermione said in her best bossy older sister voice.

Dan looked up and, seeing that Harry was more nearly finished eating, complied. “Get the mail, Harry.”

“Make Hermione get it.”

“Hermione’s still eating, Harry. We can make her get it next time.”

Harry quickly took the last bites of his breakfast and ran to get the mail. He brought it back, idly reading over the senders’ names. He didn’t recognise any of them, but Dan picked out one of them and quickly opened it. He read the first line, and called, “Emma, come look at this.”

“What is it, Dan?” his wife said.

“The adoption papers came through.”

“They did?”

“They did?” Hermione echoed.

All four of them clustered together to see the letter, and Dan pointed to the relevant line.

Harry James Potter is hereby recognised as the son of Daniel Mark Granger and Emma Julia Granger. After much discussion, they had decided as a family for Harry to keep his last name to honour his birth parents’ sacrifice, but Harry would have taken any name he had to for this.

“Congratulations, Harry,” you’re officially part of our family, now, Dan said. Hugs and kisses were exchanged all around that morning, and Harry showed up at school that day with an unshakable smile on his face. It was official now. He had a real family.

July 1986

Andromeda Tonks felt a very strong twinge and shivered as she passed through the wards of the house. This place was protected by everything short of a Fidelius Charm, although considering who she was here to meet, that was no surprise.

To say she was nervous would be an understatement. No one had seen Harry Potter for almost five years besides Dumbledore and his closest confidantes. Now, she learnt that he had been adopted by a pair of muggles who happened to have a magical daughter, and now they wanted to meet her.

Andromeda had never met the boy before. Sirius had wanted her to, but the Potters were already in hiding when he was born. She would never understand how her cousin had gone so wrong. Sorted into Gryffindor, left the family and got disowned like her, apparently acting as the perfect godfather right up until the end…but now wasn’t the time to dwell on such things. She rang the doorbell without hesitation. You don’t spend fourteen years with Ted without picking up a few things.

Emma Granger opened the door to let their visitor in, but stopped in surprise when she saw that the woman at the door looked completely normal. She was an attractive woman in her early thirties, clean and formal, with mousy brown hair, and wearing a muggle dress. Her dress was even in style.

“Are you Mrs. Tonks?” she asked.

The woman gave her a nervous smile and shook her hand. “Yes, you must be Mrs. Granger. How do you do?”

“How do you do? Please come in. Harry, your cousin is here,” she called.

Harry ran out to the foyer upon hearing the news, his sister and father in tow, where he saw a strange woman who froze and stared upon spotting him. He was starting to notice a pattern with that. And of course, his natural feline reaction was to get into a stare-down.

It took a moment from Andromeda to figure out that she’d got herself into a staring contest with the Boy-Who-Lived. Yes, this was James’s and Lily’s son, alright, but there was something else in his eyes. Since she didn’t know about his ability, she could only guess that it came from his time with his new family. He was looking well, though. Based on Dumbledore’s rather cagey report, she could figure out that he was doing a lot better than when they’d found him last fall. In fact, he had grown several inches and was well on his way to catching up with his year-mates, and the karate lessons were already leaving him fitter than the average little boy.

As she stared, though, Emma Granger seemed to be more on top of things. She leaned down and whispered something to the boy, who blinked once, slowly, then extended his hand and said, “Pleased to meet you Mrs. Tonks.”

Something long suppressed broke free within her when she heard him speak. The boy seemed so normal. Even she had got a little wrapped up in the Boy-Who-Lived legend, but no, he was just an ordinary child, and suddenly, the formality truly pained her. He was family, after all—indeed, the only family she had besides Dora, Ted, and Ted’s parents whom she actually cared to talk to. Perhaps it was time to redeem the hated nickname that her sisters had given her. She crouched down in front of him and took his hand in both of hers. “It’s good to finally meet you, too, Harry,” she said softly. “Please, call me Cousin Andi…Is this your sister?” She motioned to the girl behind him.

“Yes, ma’am—Cousin Andi, this is Hermione,” Harry said with a smile.

“Pleased to meet you,” Hermione introduced herself.

“Hermione, that’s a lovely name,” Andi said. “It’s a perfect name for a young witch.”

She giggled at the compliment. She was still far more used to people making fun of her name, even with her brother defending her.

“Thank you for having me over, Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” Andi said, standing up. “I don’t have much more family than Harry does, so it’s good to be able to connect with him.”

“Please, call us Dan and Emma,” the latter said. Whether she turned out to be a truly strong supporter for Harry or not, she was still family. “Come, sit down. Would you like some tea?”

“Yes, please.”

“So tell us about your family,” Dan said as they sipped their tea. “I know Harry’s dying to hear more.”

“Oh, I’m sure you know all about us by now,” she said with another nervous smile.

“Not really. Mr. Dumbledore didn’t tell us much besides that you’re Harry’s cousin.”

“Really? He gave me a whole dossier on you—” She stopped as she saw the Grangers groan and roll their eyes. Even the children. “Well…he would, wouldn’t he.”

Dan and Emma glanced at each other and each cocked an eyebrow.

“Alright, then. I come from the Black family, just like Harry’s grandmother, but, frankly, the smart ones all got out at the earliest opportunity. My husband, Ted, is muggle-born—like Hermione—so we try to keep up with goings on in the muggle world. And we have a daughter, Nymphadora. She’s thirteen, and she’s…she’s a force of nature.”

Dan and Emma laughed with her at that, secretly glad that they didn’t have to worry about teenagers for a while yet.

“I know,” she continued. “She thinks she wants to be an Auror already—that’s like a magical detective, more or less. I guess it was too much to expect her to go into the family trade.”

“Family trade?” Dan asked.

“Well, Ted’s and mine. Actually, I think we have that in common. You two are…dentists, right? Teeth healers?”

“Mm-hmm,” they nodded.

“I work as a healer in St. Mungo’s Hospital, and Ted works in the apothecary in Diagon Alley.”

“Really? What’s that like, magical healing?” Emma said.

“According to Ted, it’s not too different from yours. We have potions to match most of your medicines and the same kinds of physical therapies and such. The difference is that it’s easier to do surgeries and heal simple cuts and fractures with a wand.”

“And cleaner, too,” Emma pointed out. “That alone’s got to add a few years to your life expectancy.”

“I can imagine so. We should compare notes sometime. Too few healers ever pay attention to muggle techniques.”

Dan and Emma were thrilled to find someone in the magical world who could speak to them on their level. Emma jotted down a few notes. She had already filled her first notebook with material from A History of Magic and had started in on a second. “And of course, you’ve got into Harry’s family business as well,” she said. “The Wizengamot?”

“Yes, there is that, although they don’t meet that often, thank Merlin. Only once a month unless there’s something big going on. A bunch of self-important, old, rich folks taking themselves too seriously, if you ask me, but that’s politics for you.” Dan and Emma chuckled at that. Some things didn’t change no matter what world you were in.

“Well, we appreciate you representing Harry’s interests there all the same.”

“It’s not that much trouble, really. Someone’s got to do it, and I might as well put all that training my family gave me to good use.”

“So how is the Wizengamot actually set up? I mean, we’ve read through most of A History of Magic that Dumbledore gave us, but what’s it like now—the factions and such?”

Andi was secretly relieved that Dumbledore hadn’t left the Grangers completely in the dark. “Ah—there are forty-four hereditary seats, six elected, and eight appointed,” she explained. That raised some eyebrows. The Grangers had not expected the hereditary seats to still be so dominant. “The seats are roughly equally divided into three factions…and that actually hits close to home in my family. You see, my younger sister, Narcissa, married Lucius Malfoy: leader of the conservative, blood purist faction, accused Death Eater, though he claims Imperius, and if not the richest man in Magical Britain, certainly in the top three. It’s his money that keeps the blood purists in power, and it’s suspected by many that he was bankrolling You-Know-Who.”

“Who?” Dan said.

“You-Know-Who?”

“Uh…no, we don’t know who.”

“Wha—?” Andi sighed. Surely, Harry had been told about his past? “You know…V…V…Voldemort,” she sounded out, looking very uncomfortable.

“Oh, him,” Dan said casually. Andi’s eyes widened in surprise.

“What’s the matter?” Emma asked.

“Well, it’s just that…people really don’t like to say his name.” The Grangers just looked confused. Even the children. “I mean really don’t like to say it…He’s described in official publications as ‘He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’.”

“But that’s crazy!” All eyes turned to Hermione. She flinched a little, but she pressed on, “That just makes him scarier.”

Andi suddenly felt like she was being put under the microscope, acutely aware despite the culture shock that she and most of the wizarding community had just been put to shame by a six-year-old.

“She is right, you know,” Dan said. “No one in our world is afraid to say Hitler’s name or anything like that. Besides, Mr. Dumbledore never had any problem using Voldemort’s name.”

Andi struggled not to flinch. “I know, he’s always been like that,” she said. “I’m sorry, it’s just that news travels fast in the magical world, and V…Voldemort…had a habit of…” She glanced at the children. “Making an example of people whom he felt didn’t fear him enough.” Harry turned a little green at that, so she quickly changed the subject. “In any case, there is also a faction that opposes the blood purists—to varying degrees. They range from people who only want equal rights for muggle-borns to Solomon Monroe, who thinks Acromantulas are just misunderstood.” The Grangers didn’t know what an Acromantula was, but it didn’t sound cuddly. “Dumbledore is the leader of the pro-equality faction—the Leader of the Light, as his fans like to say—though for more day-to-day things, it’s probably Augusta Longbottom, and I’m sure Harry could be a formidable force when he comes of age if he chooses to be.

“The other faction is the neutrals, led by Adrian Greengrass, Sr If you want to get anything done at all these days, you have to peel off a few of them. Of course, there are lots of little idiosyncrasies—like I suppose I should tell you about the Black Seat. I assume you know about Sirius Black?”

The family all nodded. Harry had by now been told the story of his traitorous godfather.

“Sirius Black is the last surviving male of the Black line. The last one from a family that even one generation ago seemed to be strong and secure. Since he’s in Azkaban, the Black Seat on the Wizengamot falls to his nearest relatives by proxy. His brother, Regulus, was also a Death Eater, although he apparently got cold feet when the war turned bad, and V…Voldemort…killed him himself. The next in line was his mother, who filled the seat until she died last year. After her was my older sister, Bellatrix—also a Death Eater. She’s in Azkaban, too, for…doing things that aren’t appropriate for children to hear.” Dan and Emma grimaced at that. It had to be pretty bad to beat what had happened to Harry’s parents. “Since I was disowned by my family, I’m not eligible, so his current proxy is Narcissa. While Sirius Black lives, she holds his seat and votes in lockstep with her husband. When he dies, there will be a vacancy, and the Wizengamot will elect a new family to fill it, preferably the nearest blood relative who has an heir and isn’t already ennobled. If things remain as they stand now, Malfoy will nominate Richard Burke, I’ll nominate Enid Croaker, and Malfoy will win that vote.

“But let’s talk about happier things. I want to hear all about what Harry’s been doing these past eight months…”

They conversed for quite a while, telling what they could about their first encounters with Harry and with Dumbledore and how Harry had been faring since then. The children talked at length about their friends and school, and Hermione especially about her many books. When Harry mentioned his love of climbing, Andi said she expected him to take to flying and Quidditch, like his father, though Dan and Emma didn’t look particularly pleased about that. They only knew the basics of Quidditch, but Andi could admit it didn’t sound too safe by muggle standards.

When the children talked about the karate classes they were taking, though she understood how serious it was, she couldn’t help but laugh and say, “Now that I have to see.” Her laughter quickly turned to amazement as Harry and Hermione demonstrated a complete kata to her. Not that they were particularly good—they were only yellow belts by now—and of course they didn’t have wands yet, but if they were doing things like this at ages five and six, she thought, then her pompous, entitled brother-in-law and his cronies would be in for a surprise if they ever tried anything on the children when they were older.

In return, Andi told them some more about her family, particularly Dora’s pranking exploits at Hogwarts and her Quidditch rivalry against Charlie Weasley, which were the source of much amusement. Emma suggested the two families meet sometime, though that might take some doing.

“I definitely need to introduce you to Ted sometime,” Andi confirmed, “but it’s tricky. Officially, I’m not even here right now. You probably know by now how Dumbledore is about secrets. I’ll bring my husband if I can, but I’m not sure if Dora’s ready for that yet.”

As the conversation started to wind down, Andi surprised them by pulling a wrapped parcel out of her handbag. “Harry, I know you have a birthday coming up in a couple of weeks, and since I won’t be able to come for that, I wanted to give you this.”

Harry took the parcel and, after a nod from his parents, opened it. Inside the box, he was surprised to find a toy motorbike, about eight inches long and a matching silver wand of about the same length. He held up the motorbike and studied it curiously. It looked oddly familiar.

“Your father and grandfather were more tinkerers than anything else, Harry—magical inventions, better broomsticks, that sort of thing. That motorbike is a replica of one that your father…and Sirius Black enchanted to fly.”

“Really?” Harry asked excitedly. “I had a dream about a flying motorbike once.”

“Then maybe it was the same one. The original is in our shed. This one doesn’t fly, but it does move around on its own. Go on, set it on the floor.” Harry did so. “Now, do you see that silver stick?”

“Uh huh.”

“That’s a toy wand. It doesn’t do anything besides control the motorbike. Just point the wand at it and say, ‘Start.’”

Harry picked up the silver wand from the box and said, “Start.” Immediately, the toy started rolling forward, perfectly balanced, with a rather electric-sounding whir. Harry soon learnt that it drove wherever he pointed the wand, and he was quickly doing laps around the living room until he tried to turn it too tight, and it wiped out.

“It’s great! Thanks!” he exclaimed.

“You’re quite welcome, Harry. Say ‘Stop’ to turn it off.”

“Um, are we, you know, allowed to have that here?” Dan asked before it could go any further.

“Oh, certainly. Just don’t tell anyone that it’s magical. The Ministry doesn’t trace all magic, just spells. It’s sort of the worst-kept secret in Magical Britain. Tell them it’s a custom toy that runs on…batteries, is that right?”

Harry righted the motorbike and started it again, with Hermione chasing after him.

“Okay, you two, why don’t you take that upstairs if you’re going to play with it—just be careful.”

The kids squealed with excitement as they climbed the stairs, leaving Dan and Emma to ask the main political question that they didn’t particularly want to involve them in.

“Andi, there’s something we’ve been wondering about, if you can answer it,” Dan said.

“What is it?” Andi said seriously, recognising the ploy from when Dora was that age during the war.

“Just how did Dumbledore get all of those titles of his?”

“Oh, that.” Andi chuckled a little in spite of herself, even though she understood how it could be a concern. “It’s actually pretty simple. Albus Dumbledore was hailed as the Saviour of the Wizarding World for years.” Dan and Emma started. “Um, you’ve been reading A History of Magic. Have you read about Grindelwald’s War?”

“Not yet.”

“Read those chapters—and come to think of it, have a muggle history book open when you do. I can understand why he didn’t tell you. Dumbledore doesn’t like to talk about his personal life, but the fact is that he personally defeated Grindelwald himself in 1945.”

“What?” Emma exclaimed. “You mean Dumbledore won World War II single-handed?”

Andi nodded. “The Western Theatre, anyway. Everyone knows the story. Dumbledore was one of the planners in the war—he’s always been very clever—but a lot of people thought that he was the only one strong enough to beat Grindelwald in a straight duel. He didn’t want to get involved in the fighting himself, but the Wizarding Allies were desperate—far more desperate than I think the muggle commanders ever knew. Grindelwald was about to break through the Allied lines with his army to take back France for the Germans. So on the 6th of January, 1945, Dumbledore met Grindelwald in the Ardennes and fought him. Three hours of chaos and destruction later in what is widely agreed to be the greatest duel of all time, Grindelwald was in chains, and Dumbledore was leading the Allies to victory.”

“Wait a minute, you said the Ardennes?” Dan said. “My father was at the Ardennes.”

“A lot of people were,” Andi said apologetically. “I doubt he would have seen anything besides explosions. Anyway, Dumbledore was called the Saviour of the Wizarding World from that day forward until…well, honestly, until Harry took over the title five years ago. The world was so grateful that they made him Supreme Mugwump and Chief Warlock before the year was out. He still gets offered Minister about once a decade, too, but he always turns them down. He says he prefers to just moderate.”

“Yes, that’s basically what he told us,” Emma said. “So he got all those titles for winning the war…not from…politicking.”

“Politicking? No, they practically made him take them. After all, what else are you going to give to the most powerful wizard in the world?”

“But…but…” Dan stammered as he grasped for the real thing that was bothering him. “That means the most politically powerful person in your world is also the most physically powerful person as well?”

“Huh…I guess I never thought of it that way…I mean, that’s really a matter of opinion. Everyone thought that…Voldemort was his near-equal.” She was surprised how easy saying that name got after a few repetitions. “And there are others—Minister Grayson in Australia, Fan Tong in China, Old Coyote in America. Any of them could probably give him a run for his money.”

“And you don’t think he’s been doing too much in your world?” Emma said.

Andi laughed darkly. “You wouldn’t be the first to suggest that,” she said. “I’ve wondered it before myself, especially as he isn’t getting any younger. The point is that like it or not, that’s what you get for winning a war in our world.”

And they all think Harry won a war, they thought. At least Andi seemed like the type who was willing to ask the hard questions. Emma flipped to her to-do list, which was growing quite ambitious by now, and, more in frustration than anything else, added the line, Introduce democracy to the Wizarding World.

October 1986

“What are you going to be for Halloween, Harry?” Hermione asked.

Harry didn’t look at her. He lowered he head and mumbled, “I don’t know.”

Hermione knew that look by now. “What’s the matter?”

Harry sat still, but his hands began shaking almost imperceptibly.

“Hermione, come here,” her mother ordered, leading her to the far corner of the room. “I think Harry might not want to celebrate Halloween this year,” she whispered.

“What? Why not?”

“Hermione, remember, his birth parents were killed on Halloween,” Emma whispered. “I don’t think he’s going to want to celebrate on that day.”

“But what about trick-or-treating?” Hermione said more loudly.

“Shh.” She should have known this would be a sore spot. Halloween had always been the one day a year when Hermione was allowed excessive amounts of candy. “If Harry doesn’t want to go, he doesn’t have to. Remember, he doesn’t like sweets as much as you do either. If you really want to go, you can go with just your father.”

“Oh…okay…” Hermione said, looking disappointed. She didn’t speak to Harry much after that that evening, but her mother noticed her looking at him guiltily a couple times. Emma soon decided that even if Hermione weren’t going, something needed to be done so that Harry wouldn’t just be moping around the house while all the other kids were out having fun. So after a couple minutes’ whispered debate with Dan, she took action.

Sitting down beside Harry on the sofa, she held him close and scratched him behind the ears. He leaned into her.

“Harry,” she said, haltingly, grasping for words. “We know you don’t really remember your birth parents…And your father and I love having you as our son, but it’s also too bad that you never got to know them…and Halloween is coming up, and it’ll be five years…well, so we thought that it might be nice if we could visit your birth parents’ graves on Halloween after school.”

Harry looked up at her, his eyes shining, but indecisive, questioning.

“A lot of people say it helps them cope, you know? I know it always helps me when I visit my parents’…It’s sort of like being able to meet them and talk to them…even though they can’t talk to you, it’s nice to think that they can hear you somewhere, and you’ll be able to meet them again someday…Would you like to go see them?”

Harry thought for a moment and tried to say, “Yes, Mum,” but it came out as more of a squeak. He nodded and rubbed his head against her shoulder.

“Okay, I’ll write Cousin Andi and ask if she can take us,” she whispered.

A letter sent through the muggle post service always took a few days, but from what they could tell, the reply by owl was always quite prompt. Shortly after they expected Cousin Andi would have received their letter, they got an answer.

Dear Dan and Emma,

I agree with you that it would be good for Harry to visit his birth parents ’ graves if he wants to. I can fully sympathise with your concerns about his being cut off from the magical world. However, I’m afraid that Halloween itself is out of the question. The memorialisers and dare-I-say tourists will be out in full force that day, not to mention the “Harry Potter Day” celebrations. I cannot in good conscience subject Harry to that, not to mention the fact that he would probably be recognised.

I think the following Sunday, the 2nd, would be a far better time to visit. Few people will be about that day, and you can be assured some degree of privacy. I would be happy to meet you that afternoon to take you to Godric ’s Hollow, and would pay for the trip. Just be sure to cover up Harry’s scar—not many people will be able to identify him without seeing it. I’ll introduce you to Ted when I come. All the best this Halloween.

Yours Sincerely,

Andromeda Tonks

Emma felt sick when she saw the words “Harry Potter Day.” Putting it that way, they were effectively celebrating a little boy losing his parents. She had to agree with Andi; it would do no good to take him on the day.

Thankfully, Harry seemed to understand when she told him they would have to wait until Sunday—only mentioning the part about there being too many people and him being recognised. Unfortunately, this left Hermione free to ask him if he want to go trick-or-treating because if he did, she said, he needed to get a costume soon. She said it nicely, like she was trying to be helpful and make up for his not being able to go to Godric’s Hollow on the 31st, but the seven-year-old still had a ways to go in the subject of tact.

Emma was about to scold her daughter when, to her surprise, Harry quietly and half-heartedly said, “Sure, I can go.”

“You don’t have to, Harry,” told him. “I know candy isn’t really your thing anyway, and we’ll all understand if you want to stay in and just have a nice quiet evening.”

Harry looked up to face her. “Thanks, Mum…but Paul and Tiffany wanted all of us to go together.

“Oh…” Emma smiled. “Well, that’s very nice that you want to go with your friends. I suppose we’ll have to find you a costume, then.”

It took a last-minute trip to the costume shop the day before Halloween to find the right look for Harry. His wizard costume looked like a midnight blue version of a monk’s robe and hood with gold trim, and he carried the silver wand from his toy motorbike. Hermione wore a plain black witch’s robe with a pointy hat, much like Professor McGonagall’s. Her costume didn’t come with a wand, but it had a miniature broomstick like the one used by the Wicked Witch of the West.

On Halloween night, a ninja dressed all in black and a generic fairy-tale princess met them at their house, accompanied by Paul’s father and Tiffany’s mother.

“Hi, guys, nice costumes,” Paul said.

“Thanks, you too,” Harry replied, idly waving his wand.

“That’s a nice dress, Tiffany,” Hermione commented.

“Thank you. You make a great witch.”

“Come on, let’s go,” Paul cut the conversation short, looking greedy for candy. Being the oldest of the four, he knew most of the tricks to score a good haul, and he was well aware that the Grangers’ was the richest of their three neighbourhoods.

“Alright, just a minute, let me get a picture first,” Dan said. After lining up the four of them to pose for the camera, he was soon dragged off by his children to join the group.

“Have fun kids, and be careful,” Emma called after them.

“Yes, Mummy,” Hermione called back.

They took off while Emma stayed behind to pass out candy. Harry soon found that while the candy was just a minor perk, he really enjoyed trick-or-treating. Under the cover of the costume he could let his real wizard self out a little bit. He even started casting made-up spells with his toy wand, although at one point, to his surprise, sparks shot out of the end of it, and he had to tone it down. Thankfully, everyone just thought it was a fancy part of the costume.

It was his father who reminded him that he should probably not use the word abracadabra, especially on Halloween. Modern Magical History had told them just what spell that particular word sounded like.

November 1986

Andromeda and Edward Tonks arrived on Sunday afternoon to escort the Grangers to Godric’s Hollow. They noted that Harry was wearing a black baseball cap low on his forehead, covering up his scar and his characteristic hair. Even at his one-time residence, few people, if anyone, would be able to recognise the boy like that. Andi nodded in approval as she introduced her husband.

Cousin Ted was blond and heavyset, but, Harry noted, not nearly as large as Vernon Dursley, and his voice was far more pleasant. He shook the family’s hands quickly, saying, “Pleased to meet you all.” He was the first muggle-born any of them had met besides Hermione, and like his wife, he seemed to know his way around a muggle neighbourhood. Dan and Emma were quietly impressed by how he seemed to greet Harry as just one of the family. Knowing how muggle-borns had fared in the war, they wouldn’t have been surprised if he had shown a particular reverence for the Boy-Who-Lived.

“The car’s in the garage,” Dan started to say as the Tonkses started to walk back toward the curb.

“If you don’t mind, it’ll be quicker to take some magical transport,” Andi said. Taking the bus wouldn’t be that much more risky than the visit itself, and she felt she might as well save them from what Ted guessed would be about six hours of driving for the round trip.

“What kind of magical transport?” Dan said, thinking of the floo and the broomsticks.

“You’re wearing Anti-Anti-Muggle Charms, right?” Dan and Emma nodded. “You, uh, you haven’t seen any really big magic yet, so you might want to brace yourselves—we’ll be taking the Knight Bus.” She stepped to the curb and drew her wand from her sleeve. “All you have to do is hold out your wand, and…”

BANG!

Behind Andi and Ted, zipping out of nowhere and screeching to a halt was an enormous triple-decker, bright purple bus. A moment later, a conductor in a purple uniform leapt out and spoke to her:

“Welcome to the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. Just stick out your wand hand, step on board and we can take you anywhere you want to go. My name is Ernie Prang, and I will be your conductor—say, what’s their problem?” he said, pointing at the family, who were now all four of them standing open-mouthed in shock.

“Mr. Prang, these are our friends, the Granger Family,” Andi told him. The kids just found out they’re muggle-borns last year, and I’m showing them around.

“Ah, starting early now, are we? So where to, then, ma’am?” Ernie Prang said.

She handed over some gold. “Will this do for a round trip to Godric’s Hollow?”

“That it will, ma’am. All aboard, then,” he called.

The Grangers looked considerably less at ease when they boarded the bus and saw that instead of normal seats, there were free-standing wooden chairs in only an approximate semblance of order. A handful of dishevelled-looking witches and wizards in anachronistic clothes were seated near the back.

“You might want to hold on tight,” Ted warned them as they found six seats together.

“What was your first clue?” Emma muttered.

“All right, take it away, Lou,” the conductor said.

“Mm hmm,” the driver grunted, and with another tremendous BANG, they were off—and in a completely different city.

The Granger Family was thrown back in their seats with great force. The chairs seemed to slide freely, though somehow they didn’t topple over. They might have questioned how they were suddenly in London had they not all been too busy screaming. After all, the Knight Bus not only drove at at least a hundred miles an hour, but also didn’t even stay on the road.

It took five minutes and a couple more teleportation jumps for them to realise that any obstacles were simply leaping out of the bus’s path. It took ten minutes to console Harry and Hermione that they weren’t about to crash horribly. The bus made stops all over the country to drop people off and pick them up, but Andi was right about it being fast, as they pulled into Godric’s Hollow in less than an hour, though it left them questioning if it was worth it.

“Why doesn’t this bloody thing have seat belts?” Dan demanded when they finally got off. Emma didn’t even make the effort to correct his language.

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” the conductor said. “No one’s got hurt in about a month. Thanks for riding.”

With a BANG, the Knight Bus zoomed off.

“Sorry,” Andi said under Dan’s and Emma’s disapproving looks. “It’s kind of hard to describe to someone who hasn’t ridden it before.”

“Don’t you have any…better methods of travel?” Emma said.

“Not fast ones. Floo, portkey, apparition—they’re all the same. All powerful magic has a price, and in this case, the price is that it’s really uncomfortable.”

Dan still thought it would be more comfortable with seat belts, but he kept the thought to himself. Hermione, holding his hand and now more or less recovered from the ordeal, looked thoughtful at that tidbit about the laws of magic as they crossed the street.

Godric’s Hollow was a quiet country village, its muggle residents blissfully unaware of the relatively large amount of magic in their midst. A row of pleasant little cottages led down to a village square surrounded by a few shops, a post office, a pub, and a small church. Here, at the end of the row, was one cottage that didn’t look so pleasant.

“This is where most people come on Halloween,” Andi explained softly. “This was where they lived—where you lived, Harry.”

Emma held him close to her as they approached. To muggles, it looked like a fenced-off vacant lot, but to those who were privy to the magical world, there was a cottage like the others, except that a large chunk of the top floor had been blown out by a horrific explosion, and rubble was scattered over the grass. The hedge clearly hadn’t been trimmed in the past five years, and dark green ivy was creeping up the sides of the house. As they stood wondering at the neglected ruin, Andi strode closer and laid a hand on the rusting gate. A sign grew out of the ground in front of it. A description was written in gold letters, still clearly legible though surrounded by graffiti:

On this spot, on this night of 31 October 1981, Lily and James Potter lost their lives. Their son, Harry, remains the only wizard ever to have survived the Killing Curse. This house, invisible to Muggles, has been left in its ruined state as a monument to the Potters and as a reminder of the violence that tore apart their family.

Emma read the words aloud for her children. Her voice broke as she choked back tears. It had been just shy of a year since Harry had first shown up on their porch, but the reality of what had happened to his birth family hit home when they saw the destroyed cottage. Forget the Killing Curse; how had he survived the explosion?

Harry stepped forward and laid his hands on the sign and stroked the grain of the wood. It took Emma a moment to realise that he was reading off the messages written around the epitaph: five years of magical graffiti, words written over words written over words that rose to the surface in glowing ink and sank down below other messages. Harry started reading aloud, skipping over the unfamiliar names and focusing on the longer messages.

Thank you, thank you, Harry Potter.

Goodbye, Lily and James. I wish we could have been closer—Victoria McKinnon.

Bless you, Harry Potter, wherever you are—Michael Dunbar.

I failed you, Lily. I am truly sorry. I swear you will be avenged.

We will forever be in the Potters ’ debt. Thank you for all you did for us—Dedalus Diggle.

Rest well, James and Lily. I only wish I could do more for Harry—Remus.

Harry’s voice gave out, and he sank to the ground in tears with a whiny sort of cry that his family noticed sounded a lot like meowing.

Emma knelt down and held him in her arms. She was in tears, too, but partly for a different reason: after all the talk she had heard of the Boy-Who-Lived—the spurious things that were written about him in Modern Magical History, she found herself moved beyond words that finally someone had got it right. Someone in this messed-up magical world understood and properly memorialised Lily and James Potter instead of fawning over an infant whose fate was merely tragic circumstance.

Presently, a scruffy-looking long-haired cat walked up to the crying pair and meowed. Harry glanced up, blinking back tears to get a good look at it. He could tell it was middle-aged from the way it carried itself and from its yellowing teeth, and its brown coat that was going coarse and even a little grey around the nose. It eyed him warily, as if it had once had a bad experience with him, but it slowly came within arm’s reach. He reached out a hand and half-heartedly scratched it behind the ears. The cat lay down and started purring softly.

For a few minutes, no one really spoke or knew what to say, but finally, Emma and Harry climbed to their feet and looked back. Ted and Andi were arm in arm. Dan was holding Hermione in front of him, but the little girl finally broke free when she saw the tears on her brother’s face and ran over to hug him.

“Oh, Harry!” She cried. Emma laid a reassuring hand of support on each of their shoulders.

Harry sniffled a couple times and gave her a muttered, “Thanks.”

“Come on, if you’re ready…” Andi said. “The graveyard is this way.” She led them down the lane. Only Harry noticed the cat following behind them.

When they reached the square, they noticed an obelisk standing in the centre, a war memorial like the ones set up in so many other villages. But as they approached, Ted said, “They wanted to keep the cottage the way it was…on that night, but some of us in London wanted there to be a proper memorial, so we chipped in and paid for a statue here. Sure enough, when they drew near, the obelisk changed and morphed into a statue of James, Lily, and baby Harry Potter, life-sized and happily smiling out at the square. The Grangers gasped when they saw it. It was clearly based on the picture from Harry’s first birthday that he kept at his bedside.

“It’s very nice,” Emma whispered.

“It is,” Dan repeated.

“Thank you, Cousin Ted,” Harry said, giving the older man a tentative hug.

“I wonder, though…” Dan muttered. Reaching into his coat, he pulled off his Anti-Anti-Muggle Charm. “It’s an actual war memorial, too,” he said in surprise. “It has names and everything.”

“Really?” Hermione said, grabbing the necklace from his hand.

He reached out to feel the granite. “You can even touch it.” To everyone else, it looked like he was resting his hand on James Potter’s knee. Emma started to take off her necklace to see the illusion for herself.

“Hey, it turned back into an obelisk,” Hermione exclaimed. All eyes turned to her. She was wearing her father’s Anti-Anti-Muggle Charm.

“You can see the obelisk?” Andi said.

“Uh huh, when I put on the necklace. I think it works backwards on magic people.”

“It does? May I, Emma?” Andi took Emma’s necklace and put it on. “How interesting. I didn’t know they did that. Hermione, how did you know the charms would do that?”

“I didn’t…but it does make sense, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

After everyone had had a turn with the necklaces, and more importantly, after Harry had taken his time to see the statue of the Potters, they continued over to the graveyard beside the church. Filing two by two through the kissing gate, they began to look over the headstones.

“Look!” Hermione exclaimed when they reached a few rows back. She pointed to a large, dark, lichen-spotted headstone that was inscribed at the top with Kendra Dumbledore and the dates 1851 and 1899. Below the initial carving, in smaller letters, were the words, and Her Daughter Ariana with the dates 1885 and 1899. At the bottom, was a quotation: Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

“Albus Dumbledore’s mother and sister, I think.” Ted said. “He’s never talked much about his family.”

Not without reason, they thought, seeing that his sister had apparently died at fourteen.

Dan quietly read off the names as they kept looking: “Williams…Knighton…P—? No, that says Peverell.”

“Peverell?” Andi said. “That must be a really old one.”

They looked closer at the weathered, cracked headstone. It was a tall one, with an odd, triangular symbol at the top that Harry thought looked a little like a cat’s eye. Near the bottom, barely legible, was carved the name Ignotus Peverell along with birth and death dates: 12 July 1214 and 18 May 1291.

“1291? This is nearly seven hundred years old. That’s got to be older than the church.”

“This might have been their family graveyard a long time ago. They were one of the Most Ancient Houses. It’s rumoured that the Potters were elected as their successors, but the records are incomplete…The new ones are probably in the back.”

Harry kept looking with the others with growing apprehension. The deeper they went, the anticipation was growing too much for him, and his feet started dragging of their own accord, but Emma took his hand and led him on.

The headstone in the back row was white marble and obviously fairly new. It was also—they didn’t know how they had failed to notice sooner—surrounded by flowers and tokens of remembrance. Apparently, visitors came back here more than it appeared at first glance. The inscription on the stone looked fresh-cut and was easy to read as Harry brushed trembling fingers across the letters:

JAMES POTTER

BORN 27 MARCH 1960

DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981

LILY POTTER

BORN 30 JANUARY 1960

DIED 31 OCTOBER 1981

The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death.

“The last enemy that shall be destroyed is death…” Harry repeated with a look of confusion.

“That’s from the Bible, dear,” Emma said gently. We can look it up later.

He continued tracing the letters uncertainly. “What…what do I say?” he asked.

“Whatever you want.”

He sat down among the flowers and began speaking with a wavering voice, “H-h-hi…Mum…hi, Dad…” he thought he would feel a little uncomfortable saying that to the cold stone, but to his surprise, the words seemed to come naturally. “I…don’t really remember you, but I’m Ha-Harry…your son. I…couldn’t come here before because Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia were really mean, and they didn’t tell me what happened to you, and they didn’t like magic. But…but I ran away from them,” he said quickly, wiping some tears from his eyes. “I found a…a new Mum and Dad, and they’re really nice to me. I’ve got a sister now too. She’s a witch, too…She’s a m-muggle-born witch, like you, Mum. H-Hermione…?” he called.

Hermione stepped forward and sat down beside him. “Um…Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Potter,” she said uncertainly. “I’m Hermione. Uh…Harry’s a really great brother. I’m glad he got to come live with us—you know, away from his aunt and uncle. We’re going to go to Hogwarts together when we’re old enough, but Harry’s really good at magic already…”

Harry looked at Emma questioningly.

She got the message. “Could you…give us some time alone?” she said to Ted and Andi. The two of them retreated to the gate of the graveyard.

“It’s alright, Harry, you can tell them,” Emma said.

Harry smiled a little as he turned back to the white marble. “Guess what…” he whispered. “I can turn into a cat. Professor McGonagall can do it too, but she doesn’t know how I can because I’m still a kid. Did you know anyone else who could do that?” There was an awkward pause as Harry left a gap for a response without thinking. “I, um…we met Cousin Andi and Cousin Ted…I like them, but they can’t visit much…” He looked back at Emma again.

Emma knelt down to join the conversation and help him out. “Hello, James. Hello, Lily,” she said, wrapping her arms around the children. “We all really love your son. I…I don’t know how you saved him from Voldemort, but thank you. He’s such a joy to have in our lives.”

“And don’t worry,” Dan said, standing behind her, “we’ll keep him safe for you and keep him out of trouble. I’m sure he’ll be a great wizard when he grows up.”

With his family’s support, Harry sat there a while longer and told his birth parents about his friends and school and what he’d been doing for the past year. He guessed they probably didn’t want to hear about his time at the Dursley’s, but he found he had quite a bit to say about the time since then.

As he was talking, the scruffy tabby that had been following him walked up beside him and sat as if keeping watch. He exchanged blinks with it, and it let him pet it, but no one paid it much more mind.

When he felt he was done talking, despite all the tears, Harry was glad he had come. Like his mum had said, he did feel like he had got to meet his birth parents, in a way, but more than that, by coming here, his family seemed just a little bit more complete. As they all walked solemnly out of the graveyard, Ted and Andi began to lead them away, but they were interrupted.

“Well, hello, there,” a raspy, creaking voice called. They turned to see a tiny, stooped old woman hobbling down the lane. “Don’t often see visitors paying their respects after All Hallows’ Eve.”

Ted’s and Andi’s eyes went wide as they realised who this was and what she might know having lived in Godric’s Hollow for so long. Best act casual, though. “Professor Bagshot, what a surprise,” Andi said, trying to hide her nervousness. The Tonkses had met Bathilda Bagshot a couple of times before at Ministry functions, but she doubted the old woman would remember them.

As Dan and Emma whispered to each other, the old woman stepped closer to the Tonkses and met their eyes, though she barely came up to Andi’s chin. “Andromeda…” she said when she’d had a good look. “Andromeda Tonks. No doubt about it—you have the Black eyes…”

So she did remember. Just her luck. “It’s good to see you, Professor,” she said. “These are our friends, the Granger Family. Dan, Emma, I’d like to introduce to to Bathilda Bagshot, author of A History of Magic.”

“Really?” Hermione yelled, running up to her. “You wrote it? We’ve read all of it, haven’t we, Daddy?”

“Uh, yeah, that’s right,” Dan said. Truthfully, Hermione had mostly listened to her parents reading excerpts, but close enough. “We’re honoured to meet you, Professor.” They didn’t know much about the author other than the fact that they were surprised she was still alive. She looked quite old in her picture in A History of Magic from 1947, as old as Dumbledore now, who was supposedly a hundred and five. Dan and Emma could believe that she was a hundred and forty or so. She had sunken eyes with cataracts forming, skin spotted and streaked, nearly translucent, and badly thinning hair, and from the way she was acting, they weren’t sure how sharp her mind still was.

“You’re very kind,” she said, hobbling closer to them. They caught a strange odour of old age and dust from her. It was too late that they noticed she seemed to be gravitating towards Harry. Harry took a step back.

“Come here, child, let me get a good look at you,” she said.

“Professor, we really need to—” Andi started. Someone getting a good look at Harry was exactly what they didn’t want.

Too late. “Bless my soul, it can’t be Harry Potter, can it?” the ancient woman said, her voice trailing off.

“Professor, I told you this is the Granger Family,” Andi said gently.

“But he must be. I’d know poor Lily’s eyes anywhere.” Bathilda grew misty eyed. “She was a good woman…”

“You knew her?” Harry said, then promptly clapped his hand over his mouth.

“Oh there’s no need for that, young man. I knew your parents well. They had me over for tea most days while they were here. They were both very good people.”

Harry was amazed—as amazed as he had been when Mr. Dumbledore first told him about his parents—that they had also known the woman who had written a book he’d read—or tried to read, anyway.

“Professor,” Andi took charge before he could say anymore, “we were really hoping to keep this visit private. We’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone that Harry was here.”

“Oh, of course,” she said. “I can understand why the boy would want to keep a low profile. I do hope you might be able to come for tea sometime, though.”

“Next time we’re in town, we’ll be sure to make the time,” Andi said, after a glance at Dan and Emma. “Have a nice day.”

“You too, Madam Tonks. Harry, it was very good to see you again.”

Bathilda Bagshot hobbled on home, and Andi summoned the Knight Bus again. As they boarded, the brown tabby climbed aboard with them.

“I think that cat likes you, Harry,” Emma said.

“Alright, let’s go, Lou,” the conductor called, and the bus took off with a bang. The cat was thrown to the back and probably scared out of one of its remaining lives. With no other recourse, it ran to Harry and leapt into his lap, staying there until they made it back to Crawley. Sure enough, it followed Harry off the bus again and eventually tried to follow him into the house.

“Can we keep it?” Harry asked.

“Harry…we already have one cat,” Emma half-joked.

“But I wanna talk to it.”

Emma looked to Dan and shrugged.

“Alright, you can bring it inside to talk to it,” Dan said.

“Thanks, Dad.” Harry pushed past them into the house an changed form.

The cat meowed in surprise and retreated to the far corner of the living room.

Harry almost laughed. Humans and cats, it seemed, reacted much the same way. He blinked at it and dipped his head submissively, and it began to approach cautiously, meowing to itself. He could smell so much more about it in cat form. The cat was female, spayed, and probably about eight years old. She was an ordinary house cat, he confirmed, not an animagus, as he had thought she might be. She had been living mostly outside for a long time, but had the smell of a number of humans on her, both magical and muggle. She must be good at scoring food from them.

A domestic cat’s command of spoken language was even cruder than that of an animagus, but Harry could make out her meowing as roughly, Strange. Human changed to cat.

I can change with magic. Humans don’t know how, he tried to explain, but the cat only seemed to partially understand.

Know your smell. Human-Servants’ Kitten, she said when she got close enough.

You knew my old parents? he meowed back excitedly. Harry couldn’t remember having a cat any more than he could remember his birth parents themselves, but he knew a lot of wizards did have them.

Human-Servants good, she said. Gone long time. Bad Man broke house.

Harry lowered his head. Bad Wizard hunted old parents. I found new parents. New parents are nice. They can be your human-servants. I will ask them.

The cat seemed to perk up. Like human-servants. Give food.

I like having old family here. Do you have family?

Dam and Litter-Mates gone long time. Lived with Human-Servants.

Harry supposed that’s how it was for house cats when he thought about it. What is your name? he asked.

The cat meowed a name at him, but it wasn’t any identifiable words. She might have still recognised her human name, but, of course, she had no way to tell it to him.

Harry repeated her cat name with partial success. I will introduce you to Teacher-Cat when she visits, he said, but the cat didn’t seem to understand him. Without any ideas for further conversation, he changed back to human. “Mum, Dad, Hermione, guess what!”

On Hermione’s recommendation, the Potter Family’s cat was rechristened Rowena and moved into the Granger House, and while she never quite became great friends with Harry, they got along well enough. Harry claimed she was much happier being an indoor cat.

December 1986

Everyone was safely in bed, or at least was supposed to be. Yet a black and white kitten was lurking in the shadows of the living room, his gaze fixed on the Christmas tree. Harry had waited until all the lights had turned out before sneaking out of bed, easily descending the stairs without making noise on his four paws. He paused by Rowena, but she just squinted at him in annoyance for waking her and went back to sleep.

Harry took up watch from a hidden corner of the living room from which he had a good line of sight to the tree and the fireplace. His feline night vision gave him a clear view of the room that would have been practically invisible for a human. It was the perfect spot to see just what happened when Father Christmas’s presents arrived.

He was sleepy, but he didn’t have as long to wait as he feared. It wasn’t even midnight when he heard someone stir, navigating carefully through the darkened house. They stepped over Rowena, but didn’t even notice Harry’s reflective green eyes at the far side of the room. Sure enough, several new presents soon appeared under the tree.

He knew it.

February 1987

“You know, Harry’s never really taken a proper holiday,” Dan said. “We should go somewhere this summer.”

“That sounds lovely,” Emma replied. “Where were you thinking of?”

“Well, we haven’t been to Spain since before Hermione was born.”

“Fancy some summer sun on the beach?”

“I certainly wouldn’t complain. And it would do Hermione some good to get out of the library for a while.”

“Sounds good to me. We can run it by the kids when it’s closer to—”

“Ahhh!”

“Hermione!” Dan and Emma yelled. They ran toward the scream to find their daughter standing on the sofa and pointing at the floor by the television.

“There’s a mouse over there!”

It was then that they saw the little rodent poking around the carpet in the corner. But before they could react, Harry ran down the stairs.

“A mouse? I’ll get it!”

“Harry, wait,” Emma said, but Harry had already changed to cat form and ran after it. The mouse took off along the wall. Harry ran around the telly and tried to corner it by the side table, but it dodged. Soon, the kitten was weaving in and out around the legs of the furniture pursuing it, narrowly avoiding knocking over two lamps and a vase.

“Harry, stop!” Dan said.

The mouse took off toward the foyer with the kitten single-mindedly following it. He meowed for Rowena to help out, but the middle-aged cat only got out of the way and let the younger generation handle it.

A moment later, the family heard a crash and a yowl and ran into the kitchen, only to find a pleased-looking kitten dropping an unmoving mouse on the kitchen floor.

“Eww! Harry!” Hermione yelled in protest.

Harry changed back to human and said. “I told you I’d get it.”

Emma looked green at the sight, like her daughter. Dan took it upon himself to dispose of the creature, thankful that Harry at least didn’t try to eat it. “Harry, we can see you’re good at this,” he told his son, “but in the future, I think we should use traps to get rid of mice…And go brush your teeth right away, please. God knows where this thing’s been.”

September 1987

The Quibbler

Harry Potter Spotted in Barcelona?

By Xenophilius Lovegood

A family of British wizards vacationing in Spain last month claims to have seen a boy matching the description of the Boy-Who-Lived visiting the Catedral de Barcelona on 17 August. The family, which asked not to be identified, reports seeing an English-speaking boy of about six years sporting the unkempt black hair attributed to James Potter and Lily Potter ’s green eyes at the popular muggle and magical tourist site, accompanied by an unknown family.

Harry Potter has not been seen in public since the night of the defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named nearly six years ago, and both Minister for Magic Millicent Bagnold and Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore have consistently refused to answer any questions about the boy ’s whereabouts, saying only that he is being kept safe in an undisclosed location.

While most experts have dismissed the report as mere coincidence, refusing to believe that Potter would appear in a foreign country at all, let alone publicly and with an unknown family, this reporter feels that a very real threat has been overlooked: that Harry Potter has been deliberately moved out of the country by agents of the Rotfang Conspiracy in order to prevent him from growing up to oppose their efforts to bring down the Ministry from within with Dark Magic and gum disease.

We call on the Ministry to conduct an investigation at once to purge undesirable elements from the Auror Office and to confirm the safety of young Mr. Potter. Indeed, the continued integrity of Minister Bagnold ’s government demands immediate action…

STORY CONTINUES ON PAGE 3.

FOR MORE ON THE ROTFANG CONSPIRACY, SEE PAGE 5.

October 1987

Rowena was the first up that night, having never gone to sleep with the heavy rain and thunder going on. As soon as the storm picked up, she took refuge under a chair. Harry, having been tucked in hours before the trouble started, was next, but as the roar of the wind and the cracking and snapping of branches rose in the hour past midnight, the entire family soon followed. At first, Harry and Hermione were told not to worry and to go back to sleep. But Harry’s feline sixth sense, even subdued in human form, told him that this was no ordinary storm.

A loud crash sounded as a limb fell against the house. The children screamed in their rooms. At that point, Dan and Emma decided that sending them back to bed again would be a futile gesture, so they took a blanket so that the four of them could curl up on the sofa together. They listened to the radio as the weather reports grew more and more dire, and what was first forecast as a typical autumn thunderstorm became what would later be called a 200-year storm.

The family huddled on the sofa as the wind grew louder. With each gust, there was a clatter of twigs striking the roof. At times, they could hear shingles blowing away. The storm went on for a long time, but even in the middle of the night, no one could more than half-sleep. By two o’clock, they would later learn, the winds had reached hurricane force. The line of trees behind the house was groaning and cracking under the strain. Harry started whining and hid his head beneath the blanket.

The cracking of branches seemed to cascade. There was a flash of light and a sound of an explosion across the street, and the lights went out. Amid the shouts, they flared back on, flashing three times even brighter than normal before going out again.

With a crash, a limb came through the picture window, showering broken glass on the floor. The curtains flew open, and rain and wind lashed through the window frame.

“We have to get out of here,” Dan shouted. “I’ll cover up the window.”

“Into the basement,” Emma said, trying to pull up the screaming kids and drag them out of the room. Harry and Hermione felt a strange tingling in their nerves, reaching out into the chaos of the room. It was a tingling that Harry felt slightly whenever he changed, but almost never reaching outward.

“Watch your feet,” Dan said, stepping over the glass. “There’s a lot of—what the—”

All four Grangers watched in amazement as the shards of glass rose into the air. The children felt the strange energy flowing all around the room, and, suddenly, the shards flew back to the window and arranged themselves into the frame. The cracks melted into a spiderweb pattern and then vanished entirely. The rain and wind beat against the restored window, but it held, leaving only a large branch and a fair amount of water in the living room.

“Wow…” Dan said.

“Did you two do that?” Emma asked the children.

“I…I think so,” Harry said.

“Uh huh,” Hermione nodded.

There was a horrible, wrenching crunch from behind the house as a tree gave way entirely. The children screamed again, and the next thing anyone knew, the sofa flipped itself over and covered both of them. Their parents were caught by their shins and knocked to the floor. When they rose to their feet, all efforts to set the sofa upright again failed, as it seemed to be stuck to the carpet.

“Are you all right?” Emma said.

A face nearly hidden by a bushy head of hair peered out from under the arm of the sofa. “I’m okay,” she said.

A whiskered face poked out from the other end and meowed once before pulling back in. Unable to right the sofa again or coax the children out, Dan and Emma had no choice but to sit on the floor with them until the storm ended.

The house was rattled from the tree’s fall, but they would later learn it was mostly undamaged. The tree apparently fell against another tree, largely missing the roof. Over the next hour, the entire line of trees behind the house blew over one by one like a row of dominoes, miraculously missing all of the houses on the street.

It was past four by the time the wind finally died down. Only when the sounds outside were reduced to the calm patter of the rain did Harry and Hermione come out from under the sofa. When they finally did, their father quickly found that it wasn’t stuck to the floor at all.

A grey tabby cat walked down the ruined street that afternoon. Limbs were still down everywhere. The street was barely clear enough to be navigable. Minerva was thankful that she had enough time to get away from school for a short while on a Friday. Albus didn’t seem to think the storm was of much concern, but a quick owl to the Ministry confirmed that Accidental Magic Reversal Squad was being run ragged all over England by magical children who were frightened by the storm. Since the Grangers weren’t in the official directory, she took it upon herself to check in on them.

Circling the house in cat form, Minerva could smell the residual magic from last night’s events, focused on the living room. Changing in an inconspicuous spot, she went up to the door.

“Hello, Professor,” Emma said when she answered the door. A letter that morning had warned them to expect company. “Thank you for checking up on us.”

“I’m happy to help, Mrs. Granger. I’m afraid I only have a few minutes free, but after hearing about the storm, I wanted to see for myself that the children were alright and offer any assistance if you needed it.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you. Please come in. Kids, Professor McGonagall is here,” she called up the stairs. The children’s school had understandably been cancelled for the day.

Two tired, but otherwise healthy children descended the stairs, uncharacteristically wearing their shoes in the house. Minerva had noticed the wet floor.

“Hello, Professor,” the children said.

“Hello, Harry. Hello, Hermione. I am glad to see you are doing well. I have heard reports of how bad the storm was, and after seeing your street, I can see they were not exaggerated.”

“No, they weren’t,” Emma confirmed. “They’re already saying it’s the worst in living memory.”

“Yes, well, I understand it was most frightening. My contacts at the Ministry say that nearly every magical child in England experienced some form of accidental magic last night. Would I be right in thinking the same thing happened here?”

The children blushed and looked down at their feet. “Yes, Professor,” Hermione mumbled.

“There is nothing to be ashamed of,” Minerva reassured them. “These things do happen in times of great stress. I daresay I know some adults who would lose control of their magic when faced with this level of devastation. We too often forget that magic pales in comparison with the power of nature. Normally, the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad would repair anything that was damaged by a magical discharge, but given your circumstances, this is not possible, so I came to take care of it myself. If you have anything that needs mending…” She trailed off, noticing that quite a few things needed mending, though not necessarily from magic.

“Actually, Professor, the children didn’t break anything with magic,” Emma said. She explained what she and her husband had witnessed the night before, and Minerva was relieved that all of their expressions of accidental magic were perfectly normal. The last thing she needed was something else impossible happening around Harry Potter.

“Although, if you wouldn’t mind, we would be grateful if you could help us with some of the storm damage,” Emma concluded.

“Unfortunately, I cannot do anything about the outside of the house, since it would arouse suspicion. However, believe I could help you with your living room.” Sure enough, a few drying charms and cleaning charms later, and the living room was as good as new.

“Thank you, Professor. You just saved us a lot of trouble.” Minerva nodded.

“Professor?” a small voice said.

“Yes, Hermione?”

“Is there a way to control magic without a wand?”

Minerva was surprised at the question, though she supposed she shouldn’t be given the girl’s background. It was yet another question that a pureblood wouldn’t even think to ask about. “If you mean accidental magic, then yes,” she explained. “As you grow older, you will find it much easier to control your magic when you are feeling strong emotions…However, if you mean controlling it to use it, that is a rare talent, and not my field of expertise. Professor Dumbledore would have firsthand experience with it, but few others would.” She paused as she saw Harry looking at her eagerly, and she remembered what Albus had said about the normal rules not applying to the boy. “Although I suppose if anyone could manage it, it would be the boy who mastered the animagus transformation at age five and his highly gifted sister,” she said with an inward smirk. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be returning to class. Good afternoon.” She left the premises and apparated back to the gates of Hogwarts, wondering if she had just created more headaches for herself down the road.

Meanwhile, Hermione had dragged Harry back up the stairs enthusiastically. He braced himself as he recognised the look his sister got whenever she was on a mission.

“Harry, how did that accidental magic feel to you?” she asked when they had retreated to the privacy of her room.

“I don’t know,” her brother said. “Kinda like…tingling…like, in my arms.”

“Like, sort of an electric feeling?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s how I felt, too. I bet if we can figure out how to control that feeling, we’ll be able to do magic without a wand.”

Harry thought about it. “Maybe…” he said, “but Professor McGonagall says it’s hard.”

“So? She doesn’t know how you can turn into a cat, either.”

“But neither do I.”

“Well, it’s still magic,” Hermione insisted. “Do you feel the same when you change?”

He hadn’t really thought of it that way before. “Um, a little, I guess, but in my chest more, and it’s…kind of…hidden, like I have to go and find it. And then I have to concentrate on my cat form…”

“I think we should try to learn it,” she insisted, matter-of-factly. “Maybe it’s easier than Professor McGonagall thinks. And it could be useful later.”

Harry knew better than to try to argue with his sister on that.

November 1987

Harry scrambled up to the top of the jungle gym. Climbing was second nature to him by now, and his dad had even suggested he take up rock climbing, although no one else the family was quite up to that. Hermione, Paul, and Tiffany followed him up. They had all become decent at climbing the metal bars in an effort to keep up with him, though of course none of them could.

On some days, the foursome climbed up and down all over the jungle gym, or migrated over to the swings, or went out and joined the football game in the field. Other days, like today, they just sat on top of the jungle gym and talked.

Paul was regaling them with stories of his cousin’s wedding, which, by all accounts, had been barely-controlled chaos. First, the sound system failed entirely, then the groom had very nearly thrown up at the altar, and the organist had mixed up all the songs. Then, of course, there was the fact that the wedding cake had collapsed due to what his irate aunt had called “a bloody design flaw.”

But when he told them how his crazy uncle had got drunk and started belting out show tunes to the entire reception, they lost it. Harry and Hermione clung tight, but Tiffany started laughing so hard that she lost her balance and fell off her bar.

Paul’s shout of “Tiffany!” was immediately followed by Hermione’s shout of “Harry!” as her brother lunged for their friend at an angle that seemed sure to knock him off as well. Paul and Hermione reached out to them, and the playground monitor ran to help, but none of them could get close enough past the bars. But everyone in sight stopped and gasped as they saw what happened next.

Harry was hanging upside-down, his knees wrapped around the bar, with Tiffany swinging safely by her hands at the end of his arms in what any Quidditch fan would have identified as a perfectly-executed (and very difficult) Serafini Snatch.

“Whoa!” Tiffany said, looking up to see Harry’s face. “Th-th-thanks, Harry,” she stuttered. She wrapped an arm and a leg around the bars and started to slowly climb down, having had enough heights for one day. “How did you do that?” she asked when she was back on terra firma.

“Yeah, that’s what I’d like to know,” the playground monitor said as she checked them over.

“I don’t know. I just kinda did it.” Harry said sheepishly.

“Those are some good reflexes, kid. You should go out for tennis or something.”

Harry nodded, thinking from what he knew of the wizarding world that he would probably be more interested in the “or something.”

April 1988

The Granger Family was out shopping for some new summer clothes when they happened upon a strange-looking individual. They immediately noticed two unusual traits about the little man. First, he was wearing all purple and bore more than a passing resemblance to the Mad Hatter. And second, he was conspicuously bowing to Harry. Either one of those things by itself would have been enough to scream “wizard.”

“Um, excuse me; do we know you, sir?” Dan said, approaching the man.

“Oh, no, you wouldn’t, of course. Diggle’s the name, Dedalus Diggle,” the excited man said. He shook Dan’s hand before zeroing in on Harry. “Delighted, Mr. Potter, just can’t tell you…” He shook the seven-year-old’s hand so vigorously that Harry considered utilising a karate move to get out of it before his mother pulled him away.

“P-pleased to meet you, sir,” Harry muttered, a little shaken.

“Yes, we appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Diggle, but we are trying to keep a low profile here,” Emma said.

“Oh, of course, of course. No one will hear anything out of me; my lips are sealed.”

“Thank you,” she said curtly. They decided to move on to the next shop, away from the well-meaning, but over-eager fan. Thank God they’re not all like that, they thought.

August 1988

Hermione stared at the torch she had set up on her bedside table, trying to feel the energy flowing around her. After comparing notes with Harry, they had determined that the most common effect of accidental magic they had experienced was flickering lights, and they also knew that strong magic interfered with electricity, so it was a natural idea. She decided to start small, and her first experiment in controlling wandless magic was to try to turn a torch off and on again.

She had started working on it off and on during the school year—and pestering Harry to do the same—but she had concentrated on it in earnest during the summer. Often, she didn’t even get the torch out, instead just focusing on sensing her own magic. It was hard work, since her magic was normally buried so deep that she couldn’t feel anything, except when she was too upset to pay attention to it. Harry, even with his control of his animagus ability, wasn’t doing much better. But with careful meditation, recalling how she had felt during the Great Storm, she slowly brought it to the surface.

They had received an unexpected help from the wards around the house. Since they began paying attention to them, both children soon found that they could feel a slight tingle of magic every time they passed through them. That went a long way toward being able to identify the feeling of their own magic.

Though it was still difficult, Hermione now thought that she could sense the subtle feeling of magic flowing through her body, extending from her fingertips and encircling the torch in thin filaments. She grasped at the feeling and tried to channel more power into it. She felt the magic waver, nearly losing her grip, but it strengthened, and after carefully increasing the pressure, without moving the switch, the light bulb in the torch winked out.

“YES!”

Unfortunately, with her flow of magic forced open, Hermione’s excitement had a stronger effect than she expected. The torch bulb exploded with a small pop, and the overhead lights flickered across the entire upstairs.

“Hermione?” her mother knocked on the door. “What’s going on?”

“Hermione?” Harry said from behind her. “I could feel that from my room.”

“Feel what?” Emma said suspiciously.

Well, this could get awkward, they thought.

July 1989

“Hey, Mum, check it out!” Harry held up his hands, one above the other, with a pound coin floating and spinning in between them. After nearly a year’s worth of work, he and Hermione successfully taught themselves to release their magic without destroying anything—mostly—and they soon turned their attention to levitation, the next obvious thing that Hermione suggested. They started with small things like scraps of paper, paper clips, and feathers, before moving up to slightly larger pens and coins. The results still weren’t entirely reliable, and it usually took them some time to get it started, but they were making great progress, with Hermione consistently coming out a little ahead, to no one’s surprise but her own.

Their parents had tolerated these “studies,” despite the extra headaches they sometimes caused, since they knew it would be useful later, but this was not the best time.

“Harry, quit fooling around. The Tonkses will be here soon,” Emma ordered.

“Sorry, Mum.” He snatched the coin out of the air and pocketed it before going back to cleaning. He reflected that it was unfortunate that they hadn’t figured out a way to clean the living room with magic. Hermione’s efforts to speed up scrubbing the kitchen with magic similarly failed. Thankfully, conventional methods got the job done soon enough.

Outside, Ted and Andromeda Tonks approached the Granger House with their confused, pink-haired, teenage daughter in tow. Dora Tonks wasn’t sure what to expect when her mother said that, as a reward for passing her O.W.L.s and “mostly” staying out of trouble this past year (though that had more to do with being too busy studying for O.W.L.s), “I think you’re ready to see what’s been going at the secret meetings I’ve been going to for the past few years.”

Dora was a little annoyed; since she had been looking towards an Auror career for years, she knew how to keep a secret. But she was mainly torn between curiosity at what kind of secret meetings her parents could be going to and the worry that, even if secret, her mother’s political meetings were likely to be profoundly boring.

But all that was replaced with utter confusion when her parents apparated her to a muggle neighbourhood south of London. This didn’t look like politics; few politicians would be willing to stoop to this, even among the liberals. Moreover, they seemed to be approaching a house with a mailbox marked “The Grangers,” which wasn’t any wizarding family she’d ever heard of. Then, she crossed the property line and promptly froze in shock.

“Whoa, none of my friends have their houses protected this much,” she said as she felt out the wards. “Not even Jason Denbright.” The Denbrights were one of the richest families that had resisted He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s call during the war, and they had shelled out for what she had thought were pretty good wards, but not like this.

She could swear she saw her mother smirk at her. What was this place? The whole setup screamed “deep cover,” probably someone in hiding since they were so far from any other wizards. Amazingly, the obvious answer, given her mother’s position, eluded her, mainly because she didn’t pay enough attention to her mother’s political work, and to the extent she did, she had no sense of her consulting with anyone.

Her mother knocked on the door, and a man about her parents’ age answered it, wearing muggle clothes.

“Hello, Andi, Ted,” the man said warmly.

Andi? No one called Dora’s mother Andi. Not even her father called her mother Andi, and Aunt Narcissa had got out of the habit, too. The only living person who called her that was supposed to be rotting in Azkaban.

“Good afternoon, Dan,” Andi said, apparently unperturbed. “This is our daughter, Nymphadora.”

Dan had looked at her strangely when she felt her hair bleach white in surprise. She willed it back to her normal bubblegum pink as she stammered out, “J-j-just Dora, please. Um, wotcher, Mr. Granger.” She stepped forward and shook his hand.

“It’s good to finally meet you, Dora,” he replied. “Please come in.” He led them into the living room, where the rest of the family was waiting. “Dora, I’d like to meet my wife, Emma, our daughter, Hermione, and you can probably recognise our adopted son—”

She spotted the scar right away. “Bloody hell, it’s Harry Potter!” she yelled, very nearly falling over.

Harry’s eyes went wide as he stared back at her, and the rest of his family flinched. “Bloody hell, your hair turned green!” he yelled back.

“Language!” all of the other females in the room said at once.

Dora’s hair had not only changed to a bright, electric green, but was also sticking out in all directions as if it were electrically charged. With difficulty, she forced it back to normal. Then she laughed. She had just managed to surprise Harry Potter as much as he had surprised her. This meeting was looking up already.

“Dora is a metamorphmagus,” her mother explained. “She was born with a rare ability to change her physical appearance at will. It can get a little out of control when she gets excited, though.”

She rolled her eyes at her mother and matched her mousy brown hair. Then she did something a little harder and copied both Harry’s messy black hair and his facial features. She winked at him before shifting back.

Harry laughed at that. “Can you look like a cat?” he said.

“Harry!” Emma scolded.

But Dora was more than willing to take the challenge for him—and it was better than the boys at school usually asked to see. “Cat, huh, that’s a tough one,” she said. She had to do it step by step to get it right, first growing brown hair all over her face, then changing her nose and mouth to a cat’s muzzle. Then the hard part: she pushed her ears up into large triangles on top of her head and morphed her eyes to vertical pupils. She held the pose for a moment before releasing it, her face snapping back like a rubber band. She took a deep breath of relief and shook her head to clear it.

“Wow, cool…” Harry said. “I grew my hair back once, but I think it was accidental magic.”

“Probably,” Andi said. “Dora’s hair changed colour to whatever she was looking at for eight months after she was born.”

Dora was quick to change the subject. “So, Harry…” she said, leaning towards the boy and working up the nerve to ask it. “How did you end up here in the muggle world?”

Harry told her the story, with just a little help from his…parents, she thought with a start. That was unexpected. He explained how he had been placed with a muggle aunt and uncle who were so mean that he ran away from home, eventually winding up with the Grangers, where his adoptive sister was a muggle-born witch. Dora was sure there was more to it than that, but the pieces still fell into place. She had heard the rumours that Harry had been placed with a muggle family, so he would have been raised with relatively little knowledge of the magical world—though surely more than nothing: he was Harry Potter after all. As his proxy, her mother was probably his main contact. And of course she would let a famous little boy call her Cousin Andi.

“Well, it looks like you’ve done pretty well for yourself,” she told him. “Blimey, do you know how big this news is gonna be when you go to Hogwarts?”

“Unfortunately,” Emma groaned.

“Oh…sorry.”

“That’s why Dumbledore wanted him in the muggle world in the first place,” Andi said. “It’s not about hiding anymore so much as it’s about giving him some space.”

“Dumbledore set up the wards, didn’t he?”

Dan and Emma looked surprised that she made the connection so quickly, but the children just nodded, knowing that she would have felt them upon entering.

“So what’s new on the other side?” Dan changed the subject.

The other side? Dora thought. That was a new one.

“Well, the most important news is that Minister Bagnold announced her retirement, so there’s going to be an election next spring,” her mother said. “Unless Dumbledore surprises everyone and actually runs this time, it looks like the leading candidates are Barty Crouch, the head of Magical Law Enforcement, and Cornelius Fudge, the head of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes…It’s hard to say who will win right now, and I’m not sure who I’m voting for either. Crouch took a tough line on the Death Eaters in the war, but he also sent his own son to die in Azkaban on, honestly, kind of shaky evidence. He’s become known as rash and belligerent. But Fudge, by all accounts, is ineffective, wishy-washy, and a politician’s politician. He’s been courting the moderates in the Wizengamot so far, but he looks like the type who will be easy for Lucius Malfoy to buy out.”

“Hmm, it sounds like either candidate would be a step down,” Dan observed.

“Sadly, yes. Bagnold’s done a pretty good job. I’ve tried to ask Amelia Bones—she’s the Head Auror, Augusta Longbottom, and Elphias Doge to run, but none of them will touch it with a ten foot pole.”

“Well, you always say, if you want something done right, do it yourself,” Dora said, rolling her eyes. Her mother had been complaining about the election all month.

Andi glared at her. “And then Harry would need a new proxy. We need Enid Croaker free to cover the Black Seat, so the next in line would be Arthur Weasley, and, frankly, as good as he is behind the scenes, they’d eat him alive in the Chamber.” Dora noted that she conveniently left out that she wouldn’t touch the Minister position with a ten foot pole either. She heard Dan mutter something about “small town politics” under his breath.

“Anyway, I have a couple of initiatives I’m trying to push up to before the election, but you can read about those later.” Andi said, handing over a sheaf of papers. “So, any plans for the rest of the summer?”

“Yes, we’re going to Italy next month,” Emma said.

“Oh wonderful,” Andi replied. “I haven’t been since I was a girl. My favourite was magical Naples, but the muggle sites are beautiful, too.”

Dora soon struggled to keep up as her parents asked the Grangers about their plans and then about the children’s time in school and their various exploits. Not having gone to muggle primary school, she wasn’t familiar with some of the jargon, but she quickly got that Hermione was the quiet, bookish one while Harry was the more outgoing one. (Good, he’s gonna need it, she thought.) But both of them by all accounts were very bright and…surprisingly normal. She hadn’t quite expected Harry Potter to be like the books said, but it was hard not to picture a great wizard waiting in seclusion until the time he was needed, like Merlin.

Dora was interrupted from her thoughts when Hermione started asking her what Hogwarts was like.

“Well, it is the most magical place in all of Western Europe,” she said. “All towers and moving staircases. And floating candles and ghosts and…talking portraits.”

“Talking portraits? Wow.”

This was too easy with muggle-borns. “I bet you’re excited to start learning magic when you’re old enough, aren’t you?”

Hermione blushed uncomfortably at that. Harry grinned nervously and then said, “Can we show them what we’ve been working on, Mum? Please?”

Their parents looked at each other, and Emma said, “Oh, I suppose so. It’s not really a secret.”

Harry smiled broadly. He took a coin from his pocket and placed it in his palm. He waved his other hand over it and started whispering to himself, “Come on, come on, come on…” Dora watched, wondering if he was actually going to do what he looked like he was trying. But with his continued effort, the coin rose into the air.

“Bloody hell!” Dora yelled.

“Sweet Merlin!” her mother said.

Her father fell back on his muggle upbringing with, “Good Lord!”

Dan and Emma started laughing at the Tonkses, which surprised them almost as much. Hermione stared intently at the coin and then, extending two fingers, slowly levitated it towards herself. Their visitors looked back and forth between the two children, open-mouthed.

“Really?” Dan said. “You’re the ones who live in the magical world, and you find that impressive?”

“Wandlessly?” Andi said. “At not quite age nine and ten? Yes. Most people never even try wandless magic, and almost no one gets good at it.”

“But wouldn’t it be useful?” Hermione said. “What if you lose your wand?”

“Losing your wand is a really serious…or at least the way most people think of it, it is. It basically means you’ve lost.”

“Well, if you could levitate your wand back to you, you wouldn’t have to lose.”

Dora took an immediate interest in that. She was fast catching on to the muggle-raised children’s ability to point out the obvious. She bet Mad-Eye Moody could do wandless magic just fine. “But how can you even do that? Haven’t you got a warning for underage magic?”

Andi shook her head. “No, it’s wandless magic. It’ll show up as accidental magic at the Ministry.”

“Oh, now you tell me, Mum. So how did you learn it? Did you get a book or something?”

“Oh, no, they taught themselves,” Emma said.

“Really?”

“Mm hmm,” Hermione nodded. “It took us almost two years to learn this, but it’s getting easier. You have to feel for the magic and…sort of shape it to do what you want.”

“We practised by feeling our wards,” Harry added.

“Well, I know what I’m doing for my N.E.W.T. Charms project, now,” Dora said. “I can’t believe you kids are learning magic before you even start school.”

“Well, we do need to train,” Hermione said firmly.

“Train?”

“We want them to be as well trained in self-defence as possible,” Dan explained soberly. “Just in case Voldemort ever comes back.”

Dora let out a loud yelp and fell out of her chair.

“Dumbledore’s influence,” her mother said before she could cause a bigger scene.

“Blimey, Mum, warn me next time.” The Grangers suppressed a snicker at her expense as she climbed back into her seat.

“Anyway, that’s why they’ve been taking karate since we adopted Harry,” Dan continued.

“What’s karate?”

By the time the demonstration was over, Dora decided that at the rate these children were going, she might be taking lessons from them one day. Both of them were brown belts, now, whatever that meant. Harry was a few months ahead of Hermione, but the speed and force with which they both moved were dazzling. Then Harry goaded their father into letting them use boards. When both children snapped three-quarter inch thick planks of wood clean in two with blows that Dora was sure could equally break her arms, she fell off her chair again. No doubt: if she went up against either of them without a wand, she would assuredly get her arse kicked. The wizarding world was in for a big surprise two years from now.

December 1989

“There are worlds out there where the sky is burning, and the sea’s asleep, and the rivers dream. People made of smoke, and cities made of song. Somewhere there’s danger, somewhere there’s injustice, and somewhere else the tea’s getting cold. Come on, Ace—we’ve got work to do!”

“Ace totally would have been cooler with super cat powers,” Harry said.

“Well, of course you’d say that,” Hermione shot back. “I think it’s better that she resisted violence and let the Doctor solve it.”

“Girls,” he muttered under his breath.

“Well,” she put her hands on her hips, “isn’t the show about brains over brawn, anyway?”

“I certainly think so,” Emma defended her.

Harry mumbled something and turned away with a very feline look of ignoring them.

“You’re not going to start going on about the thrill of the hunt, are you?” Hermione said anxiously.

“Maybe…” Harry said, staring back at her. He focused and tried to morph just his eyes and his teeth to cat form, like the Master, but from Hermione’s reaction, he didn’t think it was working.

His sister rolled her eyes at him. “I’m just glad you’re too small to hunt anything bigger than a squirrel.”

Harry grinned evilly at her and hissed slightly, “How fast can you run, sister?”

“Ahhh!” Hermione ran up the stairs with Harry chasing her.

“Kids, behave!” their mother yelled up after them.

The lights flickered from hastily cast wandless magic. It still wasn’t very powerful in direct effects, but the spillover could still be strong when the children got overexcited. A moment later a mewling black and white kitten ran flat out back down the stairs.

Emma took the first couple of steps up, then stopped and shook her head. “No, I don’t want to know.”

April 1990

That Saturday was easily the hardest and longest Harry had ever pushed himself—much harder than his weeks wandering as a kitten long ago, harder than his most rigorous efforts to train himself in magic. He had been specifically preparing for this day for a solid month. It was a full day of demonstrations, assessments, strength tests, and sparring matches. Paul and Tiffany had shown up to cheer him on, and Grandma and Grandpa Granger had come down from Manchester to see him, even though Grandma mostly hid her eyes whenever he was sparring on the floor. Cousins Ted and Andi were there, too, and even old Ms. Wilkins stopped by near the end of the day to see how here one-time case was doing, though no one was sure who had told her the test was that day. Sensei John commented that Harry seemed to be a very popular boy. His family silently recollected that he didn’t know the half of it.

The day nearly ended in disaster early on when he landed a badly mis-aimed strike on his sparring partner, and pain shot up his arm. He knew enough to know that a botched strike like that could have broken his wrist, but after a few minutes of recovery, it seemed to be intact. An ankle rolling out from under him nearly floored him again, but he knew how to fall to avoid putting too much pressure on it, and he bounced right back up.

Most of Harry’s demonstrations did go well, but it was still incredibly hard work. By the end of the day, his arms were aching from the strikes, and he was sure his legs were going to give out, but he somehow managed to keep his feet.

His final sparring match of the day came up, against one of the other equally-tired candidates who had been running the gauntlet all day—a boy who was four years his senior. Making the grade didn’t depend on his winning the match, but it did depend on showing appropriate competence, even after everything else.

They put on their safety gear and bowed to each other, and then the match began, with fists and feet flying. Andi and Ted had been impressed with the children’s demonstrations before, but seeing Harry hold his own like that against an equally-trained boy twice his size, moving like a trained Auror, even after a longer day than any battle of the war had been, brought the thought of the Boy-Who-Lived legend back to their minds. The difference was that he had done this himself by hard work. If he couldn’t escape the legend, they thought, then at least he could make it his own.

An hour later, the candidates were lined up for the promotion ceremony. Most of them had passed, but not all. Sensei John stood up and spoke to the crowd: “Today, we recognise six students who have completed the mental, physical, and technical requirements for promotion to the rank of first dan, commonly known as a first-degree black belt. This rank is both a sign of skill and achievement and a call to continued study and self-improvement. Please step forward when I call your name to receive your belt and certificate…Sarah Armstrong…Charles Connor…Kathy McCoy…Adam Nicholson…Harry Potter…”

Harry’s family and friends cheered as he stepped forward, and his father took pictures as he removed his brown belt, and Sensei John tied a black belt around his waist. “And I will add that Harry is the youngest first dan recipient we’ve had in three years. Congratulations, Harry.” Harry bowed to Sensei John and hugged him in thanks. He returned to the adulation of his family, humming to himself, as “Tyler Spencer” was the last to receive a belt that day.

“Congratulations, Harry,” Hermione said, hugging him. “I just hope I can get mine before we go to…boarding school,” she said with a glance around.

“Of course you will, Mione,” Harry told her. “You’ve still got over a year.”

“But I’m not even at first kyu yet,” she said.

“But you test next week, and you’ll definitely pass. No one else has the moves memorised as well as you do.”

She smiled weakly. She’d been training for her test as much as Harry had been training for his. “Thanks Harry.”

“I think this calls for a celebration,” Dan said. “What do you say we go out for barbecue?”

“Really? Yes!” Harry yelled, leaping in triumph. With his strong taste for red meat, he always enjoyed the one American-style barbecue restaurant for miles around. The rest of his family had never seen the appeal, but this was a day worth celebrating in his preferred way.

June 1990

The Granger Family strolled past the rides during their annual trip to Blackpool Pleasure Beach, heading back for another spin on the Wild Mouse (a ride Harry insisted was very aptly named). Dan and Harry were bigger fans of the roller coasters than Emma and Hermione, but they all had a lot of fun whenever they went, and Harry especially couldn’t get enough of them. After everything he had heard about Quidditch, he was eager to learn to fly, and this was the closest he was going to get until he could get his hands on an actual broom.

They paid no attention to the gaggle of boys and a couple of adults passing them in the other direction until one of the boys yelled out, “Come on, we have to get to the Avalanche!”

“Hold your horses, Dudley,” a stern voice sounded from a woman who was clearly unhappy with having to chaperon.

Harry froze stiff. He knew those voices. And today was the 23rd, wasn’t it? “Dudley!” he squeaked out.

The boy who was shouting stopped and turned to look at him. Harry also snapped around to face the boy, who immediately spotted the scar on his forehead.

“Harry?” Dudley Dursley said in shock. Dudley wasn’t fat anymore; he was still a little chunky, but he looked to be in decent shape and was dressed up more than was really ideal for an amusement park.

“What? What was that?” A large, dominating woman with shoulder-length blond hair and a slight moustache stepped forward and looked down her nose at Harry: Majorie Dursley. She also recognised the scar and the awful messy hair, and a scowl crossed her face.

Harry hunched over, staring up at the woman, unblinking, bared his teeth, and bent slightly at the knees in preparation to flee. He had to fight his first instinct to change to cat form and run away—and his second instinct to throw out a wild karate kick at the pair.

“Harry, calm down,” Hermione ordered, taking him by the shoulder. His family knew that pose too well—the human version of a scared-angry cat pose. It had surfaced a few times when he had first started sparring in karate, and it had never ended well.

Unfortunately, his former aunt couldn’t keep her opinion to herself. “Harry Potter!” she said disdainfully. “I didn’t think I should ever see you again. You’re the little brat who gave my brother so much trouble.”

“Aunt Marge…” Dudley said nervously, trying to warn her off Harry’s obvious anger. He didn’t really know about magic per se, but Vernon had made it abundantly clear to his son that it was Harry’s “freakishness’ that had got him sent to prison.

“Excuse me, Madam,” Dan stepped in front of Harry, looking her straight in the eye. “I’ll thank you not to talk to our son that way.”

Marge Dursley was not accustomed to people standing up to her. “So you’re the adoptive parents then?” she said, taking the same tone with Dan as she had with Harry. “I do hope you’re keeping that boy in line. I can’t endorse my brother’s methods, but the boy was nothing but trouble from the start.”

Dan bristled. “The only trouble that boy ever had was how your brother treated him, Ms. Dursley. He’s always been the best son we could have hoped for with us.”

Marge wasn’t backing down. “If that’s so, then you’re lucky,” she said. “Trouble runs in his family. Comes from the mother, of course. I see it all the time in dogs. I’m sure you know about that worthless drunk—died in a car crash, and then her sister—”

“Don’t talk about my mother like that!” Harry screamed. The air began to swirl loudly around them.

“Harry, stop!” Hermione yelled, jumping in front of him.

“Aunt Marge, watch out!” Dudley whimpered. “He’s gonna use his freakishness!”

Emma wrapped her son in a hug from behind. “Harry, calm down, it’s okay.”

Hermione felt Harry’s magic subside and then whirled around to face his relatives. “Both of you leave Harry alone!” she said.

Aunt Marge was unimpressed. “And just who do you think you are, little girl?”

“I’m Harry’s sister, Hermione…and I’m a more powerful freak than he is!”

Dudley went very pale and whispered something that sounded like “Mimblewimble.”

Dan intervened again before Marge could say anything further. “And if you won’t listen to her, you’ll listen to me. Leave. My. Family. Alone.”

She finally broke under his stare. “Come along Dudley,” she said, grabbing her nephew by the wrist and dragging him back to the group. “There’s no need for us to associate with these people. Loons the lot of them.”

She kept muttering under her breath, but Dudley looked back to them and nervously called out, “Harry, I’m…sorry…about before…” He turned away and kept walking. He might not like his cousin, but he couldn’t help but feel a little solidarity with him since Aunt Marge was always so fond of insulting both of their mothers in the same breath.

December 1990

“This is the last easy chance we’ll have to tell them,” Dan said whilst pouring himself a cup of tea. He was sure he was going to need it.

“I know,” Emma replied.

“I wish it didn’t have to be at Christmas, too, but it’s getting harder for them to come around at any other time.”

“Dan, we have this conversation every year. I know it’ll have to be Christmas if we tell them at all. It’s just…it’s going to be hard to spring on them. You know how hard it was for us.”

“How could I forget? But I can’t stand keeping secrets from my parents anymore. They deserve to know their grandchildren are magical.”

“You’re not going to tell them everything, are you?” Emma said. “About Voldemort and all that?”

“No, I don’t think they need to know all the details. But it’s bad enough the kids won’t be able to use wands outside of school—according to Andi. Mum and Dad should at least be able to know where they’re going to school and why.”

“And are we going to have the kids demonstrate their wandless magic for them?”

“Well, that was the idea…Look they haven’t destroyed anything in months, and they’re good enough at it now to do it convincingly.”

“Isn’t that about what you said last year, Dan?”

“Maybe, but…but you can’t deny they’ve got better, Emma. I think they’re ready.”

Emma sighed. “I’m sure they are, but I’m worried about how your parents will react. You know they’re more traditional than we are about that kind of thing. And with Harry’s history…”

“I know, dear, but I really think if we explain it, Mum and Dad will understand.”

Emma sat down and took a sip of tea. “Well, you’re right; it is the last Christmas before they go to school. I guess we can warn the kids, and if they’re okay with it, we’ll tell them.”

Dan kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, dear. The only other question is do we tell them before or after Christmas.”

She laid her forehead on her hands. “In other words, do we risk ruining Christmas or pull a bait-and-switch on them?”

“Or you could say, do we get it out of the way early or wait until the holiday stress is over?”

“Not helping, Dan.”

“Well, the kids are old enough to make their own decisions, now. Come on, let’s go talk to them.”

The headed out to the living room, where the kids were watching the tail end of whatever the television show du jour was, which didn’t seem to have impressed them.

“I still can’t believe they haven’t made any more Doctor Who,” Hermione complained.

“Well, there was that Search Out Science episode,” Harry said.

“Which was completely ridiculous. Honestly, why wouldn’t the robot be able to figure out the puzzles? And Ace doesn’t make sense on a quiz show either. I just hope they get the show started again before we go to Hogwarts.”

“Don’t worry, we can always tape it,” Dan interrupted. “Hermione, Harry…we need to talk.”

The children decided, even after their mother’s warning, to tell their grandparents before Christmas on the evening they arrived. After dinner, they all sat around the living room, with a few candles lit for the season, and Dan turned off the telly for a serious discussion.

“Mum, Dad, listen.” he said, struggling to meet their eyes. “There’s something we’ve been keeping from you…Something pretty major.”

“Dan, what’s wrong?” Grandma said.

“Nothing’s wrong, Mum. That’s not what I meant.” He took a deep breath. “The truth is that Hermione and Harry are…magical.”

Grandma and Grandpa both broke into an uncertain laugh. “Magical?” Grandma said. “What do you mean?”

“I mean Hermione is…” He still thought the term was unfortunate. “…a witch, and Harry is a wizard. They can do magic.”

“Magic?” Grandpa said. “You mean like a stage show…”

He stopped as Hermione waved her hand towards an empty teacup in small a swish-and-flick pattern, and it rose into the air. Harry followed suit with the saucer.

“Oh…my…goodness…”

The children floated the teacup and saucer around the room. Grandpa frantically ran his hands all around them to check for wires. Even after all this time, these were still about the largest things they could levitate, but they could at least do it on command, now, and Hermione reasoned that if it was enough to pick up a wand, that was the most important skill they could learn.

“How…but that’s impossible.”

“No, it’s magic,” Hermione said proudly.

Grandpa sat open-mouthed. He tapped a finger against the teacup, and it drifted away. “You did that just by…just by waving your hand?”

“We’ll be able to do more when we get wands,” Hermione said. “We’ll be old enough to buy wands next summer.”

“So this is…real magic?” Grandma said. “You can wave a wand and say abraca—”

“No!” four voices shouted. The teacup and saucer fell. The saucer hit the corner of the coffee table and cracked in two.

“Sorry,” Harry muttered in embarrassment. He picked up the two halves of the saucer and set them together on the table. He ran a finger over the crack, and the pieces fused together again. Grandma’s and Grandpa’s eyebrows shot up.

“No, I’m sorry,” Dan explained. “I should explain. We uh…we told you that Harry’s birth parents were killed in a terrorist attack. But the truth is that it was a magical terrorist, and he used a dark spell that sounds a lot like that word…He’s gone, now…” Basically. “But it’s still not a word that you want to say around magical people.”

“Oh, my! That’s terrible. I’m so sorry, Harry,” Grandma said.

Harry blinked at her slowly and then nodded, snapping back into human etiquette.

“Luckily, as far as we know, alakazam, bippity boppity boo, hocus pocus, open sesame, presto chango, and sim sala bim are all complete nonsense,” Emma said, trying to lighten the mood. Cousin Andi had been quite amused by that list.

“We have been working on some other real spells, though,” Hermione said eagerly.

Grandma and Grandpa looked rather uncomfortable, but they nodded for the children to continue. Hermione pointed at one of the candles, and it blew out. Harry repeated her action with another candle, though noticeably slower, and between them, they extinguished all of the candles in the room. Then, Hermione extended her hand toward the first candle and, with a look of concentration, snapped her fingers. The candle lit up. They didn’t get all of them on the first try, but all of the candles in the room were soon burning again. Their grandparents sat silently.

Hermione then held up a sheet of paper from a notebook and, with a two-fingered swipe, cut it in half. Harry successfully repeated the feat.

“With a little more practice, that’ll be great for chopping vegetables,” their mother said.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Grandpa said sharply. “Look…Dan…I don’t fully understand what’s going on here, but this…this isn’t safe. I mean, dabbling in the occult, conjuring spirits…”

“Dad, it’s not that kind of magic.” Dan was silently relieved that his father’s reaction wasn’t any worse. “They’re not conjuring spirits or anything like that. They were born with it.”

“It’s genetic, Robert,” Emma admitted. “Harry’s birth parents were magical, and so were my grandparents on my mother’s side.”

“But this defies the laws of science. It’s not natural,” Grandpa insisted. Harry stiffened, but said nothing.

“Only as we know them,” Emma countered. “You know Dan and I are trained in the sciences. Believe me; we were as shocked as you are. But electricity, television, computers—they all would have been called magic two hundred years ago. We still don’t understand how the brain works or how life began, but we probably will one day. Everything we’ve seen so far seems to suggest that there’s nothing really supernatural about what wizards call “magic.” It’s just science that we don’t understand yet.”

“She right, Dad,” her husband said. “We’ve seen some magic ourselves, and we’ve read a lot about magical history, and it reads a lot more like inventions and machinery and computer programs than it does mediums and occult rituals. We honestly believe that it could be broken down scientifically if we had the opportunity.”

Grandpa leaned back and his seat and closed his eyes, trying to process what he had just seen.

“But—why didn’t you tell us?” Grandma exclaimed.

“We wanted to, Vera,” Emma explained. “We very nearly did last year. But wizards have laws to keep magic a secret from mu—from non-magic people.” She was amazed at how easily she fell into the jargon after this many years. “Technically, we’re not even supposed to tell you, but they’ll look the other way because you’re close family. You certainly can’t tell anyone else.”

“And more to the point,” Dan added, “we wanted to wait until Harry and Hermione were good enough at magic to demonstrate it to you,” Dan added. “It’s taken them all this time just to get this far, and believe me, they’ve barely got started.”

“Wait, laws?” Grandpa said.

“There’s a whole society with its own government, Dad. There’s about ten thousand of them in Britain.”

“That’s why we wanted to tell you,” Emma said. “Next fall, the kids will be going to a magical boarding school in Scotland to learn actual spells. It’s supposed to be the best in the world. You deserve to know where they’re going and what kind of education they’re getting.”

Grandpa sighed heavily. “A school? A government? Magical science…?” He was silent for a long time. “Well, you’re right about one thing…it will be great for chopping vegetables.”

The tension broke. The other adults started laughing, and the children broke into broad smiles and leapt up to hug their grandfather. Dan and Emma all but collapsed into tears when they went to bad that night over how well Robert and Vera had taken the news.

The next few days were filled with wonder and laughter as the two of them we regaled with tales of the magical world. Dan and Emma told them the “official” story of how they had met Harry, and about his cousins and the few other magicals they had met. The children shared the more humorous episodes they had read in A History of Magic and their favourites from The Tales of Beedle the Bard that Cousin Andi had sent them last year. And of course, they answered the older Grangers’ many questions about Hogwarts and the magical world in general.

When Christmas morning came, two owls appeared outside the kitchen window. Ted and Andi had sent Hermione an autographed copy of Hogwarts, A History by Bathilda Bagshot and had sent Harry an autographed copy of Quidditch Through the Ages, which was somewhat more impressive considering they had never even heard of Kennilworthy Whisp. Dora had sent each of them a box of Honeydukes chocolate, which even Harry had to agree was some of the best he’d ever had. An attached note said that the candy was “safe for muggle consumption,” prompting some concern that there might be some out there that wasn’t. In the end, it was universally agreed in the Granger household that this was the best Christmas ever.

January 1991

“Today, we recognise three students who have completed the mental, physical, and technical requirements for promotion to the rank of first dan,” Sensei John repeated the standard speech. “This rank is both a sign of skill and achievement and a call to continued study and self-improvement. Please step forward when I call your name to receive your belt and certificate…Hermione Granger…”

Hermione ran forward eagerly, barely containing a squeal of glee that really ought to be beneath her maturity level, she thought. She also very nearly bowled over Sensei John when she hugged him after he gave her her black belt.

“Hermione is the second black belt in her family,” he said. “Her brother, Harry Potter, made first dan last year. Sadly, Hermione and Harry will be leaving us this fall when they go to boarding school in Scotland. They have been two of the most dedicated students I have ever had the pleasure to teach, and while we’ll be sorry to see them go, I’m sure they will be continuing their training with the same enthusiasm they’ve put into the last five years.”

“Yes, Sensei John,” Hermione said firmly. Her family smiled knowingly.

July 1991

“Why, Professor McGonagall, what a surprise.”

“Good morning, Mrs. Granger. I hope this is not a bad time,” said the witch who was uncharacteristically dressed in muggle clothes that, if a little old-fashioned, looked perfectly normal.

“Not at all. Please come in.” Emma led her to the kitchen, where the rest of the family was eating breakfast.

“Oh, good morning, Professor,” Dan said when he saw her.

“Good morning, Professor,” the children echoed.

“Cup of tea?” Emma asked.

“No thank you. I’m afraid I can’t stay for long. Harry, Hermione, I’m here because I have something very special for both of you.” She drew two envelopes from a sheaf of parchments. “These are your Hogwarts acceptance letters.”

Both children gasped in delight and rose from their seats. They waved their hands toward McGonagall, and the letters levitated out of her hand and across the table, where they snatched them out of the air. Her eyebrows rose in surprise. These two were becoming entirely too proficient for their own good.

“Children! That’s…not polite,” Emma scolded.

“Sorry,” they mumbled.

McGonagall lapsed back into her stern professor voice: “Mr. Potter, I am certain that you and your sister are going to be just as much a handful as your father and his friends were. Merlin help us all.” A nervous laugh circled the room as Harry and Hermione read their letters.

“We await your owl by no later than 31 July?” Harry asked in confusion.

“Oh, you won’t need to worry about that. I had to remind the Headmaster that you don’t actually have an owl,” McGonagall said. She turned to the rest of the family. “There is an orientation to the magical world for muggle-born students on Saturday beginning from Kings Cross Station in London, which I encourage all of you to attend. You will be able to do your shopping at that time, and I will of course accompany you personally to fend off Harry’s admirers.”

Dan and Emma quickly looked over the letters. “Thank you, Professor. That’s very generous of you. We’ll be there, of course,” Dan said.

“Excellent. I apologise for cutting this short, but I have five more visits to make today, and all of those will require a great deal more explaining.”

The Grangers all nodded knowingly, thanking the fates that they had got their introduction to the magical world out of the way when Harry first showed up on their doorstep.

“We’ll see you Saturday, then,” Emma said.

“Indeed. Good day.” She showed herself out.

“I can’t believe we’re finally going to Hogwarts!” Hermione exclaimed.

“I can,” Harry teased her. “We’ve known about it for years.”

“But we never get to see it. And Hogwarts, A History says it’s unplottable, so we couldn’t even find it without using magic. And we haven’t even been to magical London yet.”

“Well, we’ll all get our chance this weekend,” Emma said. “We should probably send a letter to Cousin Andi. I’m sure she’ll want to know about this…Dan?”

Her husband was still looking over the letters. “Is it a bad sign that this supply list actually makes sense to me?” he said.

Emma laughed. “Get used to it, Dan. We’re in this for the long haul, now.”

“Yes, dear.”

The Grangers arrived at Kings Cross Station on early on Saturday morning, and in a rare occurrence, possibly the only time it would happen, they knew less than the other muggle-born families did. For starters, it seemed odd to be meeting at a train station when the shopping was in London anyway, which the others had presumably had explained to them.

They reached Platform Ten early. They weren’t sure how they would identify the other muggle-born witches and wizards before McGonagall got there. Harry and Hermione couldn’t sense magic unless someone cast a spell—or if Harry changed to cat form. But they needn’t have worried. When they reached Platform Ten, there was a well-dressed couple and a tall, dark-haired boy wandering around the area, looking confused.

“Oh my goodness,” Emma said, “is that Sir William Finch-Fletchley?”

Dan looked closely at the family. “Yes, I think it is. Who would have thought?”

“Who’s he?” Hermione asked.

“We’ve seen him at charity functions a couple of times,” her mother answered. “The Finch-Fletchleys are very active in London society. They do have that ‘new to magic’ look, though.”

Dan walked up to the man in a suit and said, “Excuse me, Sir William? Are you waiting for Professor McGonagall here?”

The Finch-Fletchleys turned to see the newcomers in surprise. “Yes, we are, Mister…”

“Granger. Daniel Granger. I think we may have met at some function or other.”

“Could be. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Granger. This is my wife, Phyllis, and our son Justin.”

“Likewise,” Dan said. “My wife, Emma, our daughter, Hermione, and our adopted son, Harry Potter. They both start at Hogwarts this year.”

The Finch-Fletchleys raised their eyebrows at how Dan had singled out Harry, but they were interrupted before they could get an explanation.

“Hogwarts?” a voice called from down the platform. “Is this the Hogwarts group?”

“Yes, come on over,” Emma said.

A family of four approached them, and a boy with dirty-blond hair was introduced to Harry and Hermione as Kevin Entwhistle. His sister, Annabel, appeared to be a couple years younger, but excitedly told anyone who would listen that she was a witch, too.

A few minutes later, a single mother came hurrying up to Platform Ten with three children in tow. They introduced themselves as the Boot family; Terry Boot, the oldest, looked excited, but the younger pair seemed to be annoyed that their mother had dragged them out of the house on a Saturday. They were definitely the most dressed-down family on the platform. Even after all these years, Harry could easily tell that all three children were in secondhand clothes, though they at least fit properly.

They had just got through the latest round of introductions when there was a loud crack at the corner of the platform, and Professor McGonagall appeared with a father and daughter, who promptly tumbled to the ground in a heap.

“My apologies,” McGonagall said as they staggered to their feet. “Portkey travel can be difficult for the uninitiated.” She scanned the small crowd that had gathered around her. “Good, it appears that we’re all here. I would like to introduce Malcolm and Sophie Roper. The Perks Family was not able to join us today. Thank you all for coming. This is the official orientation for all muggle-born—and muggle-raised—” she added, eyeing Harry, “students attending Hogwarts this fall. Now, the first order of business is to acquaint all of you with the way your children will be getting to the school.

“The Hogwarts Express leaves at precisely eleven o’clock on the 1st of September from Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. I have all of your tickets here.”

Several heads turned back and forth between the signs for Platform Nine and Platform Ten. McGonagall handed the tickets to the parents and led them a few paces to the barrier.

“The entrance to Platform Nine and Three Quarters is concealed by the barrier here. A witch or wizard, or anyone wearing an Anti-Anti-Muggle Charm, can simply walk through the wall onto the platform, like this.” She turned around and walked forward. There were gasps of astonishment when she reached the wall and disappeared.

A moment later, she came back out of the wall and faced the group. “I would like all of you to step through the barrier so that you know what to expect…Many people prefer to do it at a run until they get used to it.”

There were nervous glances around the group, as no one wanted to step forward to try it, but Harry and Hermione looked at each other and shrugged their shoulders. It wasn’t as if this was the weirdest thing they’d ever done. They took off and dashed through the barrier before anyone could speak. Their parents rolled their eyes and followed them at a brisk walk.

They emerged onto a spacious and brightly-lit train platform with what looked like a solid brick wall at their backs. There was no train at the platform, and the row of little shop stalls that lined the platform was empty, but they could tell it would be quite the sight when all the students were there, going off to school.

The Finch-Fletchleys nearly ran them over when they emerged from the wall behind them. “Adventuresome pair you’ve got there, Granger,” Sir William said.

“Oh, you have no idea,” Dan replied. “Although we’ve seen stranger things. We actually found out about magic a few years ago from, erm, a freak coincidence.”

“Really? Must be nice. The rest of us only found out on Wednesday, besides what we guessed. I really wish they would have told us sooner. When your son starts setting new clothes he doesn’t like on fire with his mind, magic is about the least frightening answer you can think of. Did you ever have anything like that?”

Dan raised an eyebrow and considered advising his children to keep a safe distance from Justin Finch-Fletchley, but he truthfully answered, “Trust me, we’ve seen stranger.”

“Ahem,” McGonagall said after all of them had come through. “Thank you. On the 1st of September, the signage for the Hogwarts Express should be self-explanatory. We will now proceed to Diagon Alley, which is the main magical shopping district in London. It is just a few blocks’ walk to the east. Follow me, please.”

“I wish I could do magic now,” Annabel Entwhistle complained as they left the station. “I have to wait two more years to get a wand.” The two younger Boot siblings nodded in agreement.

Harry and Hermione slipped back to walk beside them. “Actually,” Harry whispered, “we’ve been learning to do magic without wands.”

“Really!” Annabel whispered back. “How do you do that?”

“It helps if you have something magic to practice with,” Hermione explained. “You have to feel for how the magic feels.”

“It’s kinda tingly and electric,” Harry added.

“Or like when you do accidental magic. Once you can feel it, you can try to control it—but it takes a while. It took us over a year.”

“Oh…” Annabel said, disappointed. “Well I’m still gonna try it.” The others agreed. Harry grinned, wondering if they had just started a new trend.

McGonagall led them down the street until they came to a small pub that, even to magical sight, looked a tad on the seedy side. Hermione and Harry hesitated in front of it. They knew that from the moment they stepped into the pub, Harry was reentering the magical world, and nothing would ever be the same after that.

“This is the Leaky Cauldron,” Professor McGonagall said, “where the entrance to Diagon Alley is located. Mr. Potter, you and your family please stay close to me. I think you can guess how this will go.”

“What’s that about,” Justin called after them as the Grangers braced themselves.

“Oh, my sister’s very famous,” Harry said over his shoulder.

Hermione smacked him on the arm. “Prat. My brother’s actually a well-known war hero,” she corrected. That, of course, seemed just as made up to the others, but they would find out soon enough, like it or not. They stepped into the pub.

The place was just as dark and shabby inside as out. A group of old women were sitting down to lunch in one corner and a group of old men in another. A man in a familiar purple top hat was sitting at the bar, causing the Grangers to groan inwardly. Several people looked over and waved happily to the new crop of students coming in.

The bartender had to be over a hundred years old, if Dumbledore and Bathilda Bagshot were any indication. He was completely bald, hunched over the bar, and he adjusted a set of wooden teeth with a knobby hand that everyone prayed he washed regularly. “Good morning, Minerva,” the old man said. “Taking the muggle-born students out today?”

“Yes, Tom, just passing through,” McGonagall answered, trying to hurry Harry along.

Unfortunately, Tom had already fixed his eyes on the boy’s forehead. “Bless my soul, it can’t be…” The entire pub went dead silent. Tom leaned closer, squinting, then he jumped and stumbled out from behind the bar. “It is! Harry Potter, returned at last. Welcome back, sir. Welcome.” Tom was crying as he shook Harry’s hand.

They was a great clatter of chairs being knocked down and feet tripping over one another as Harry suddenly found himself mobbed by the entire patronage of the Leaky Cauldron. His family and McGonagall tried to keep a hold of him while all of the other muggle-born families were unceremoniously shoved back to the walls.

“So proud to be meeting you, Mr. Potter.”

“All of a flutter, sir—such an honour!”

“Doris Crockford, Mr. Potter. I can hardly believe you’re finally back.”

“Thank you so much, Mr. Potter.”

“You saved us all, sir.”

“I just know my family was next on You-Know-Who’s list.”

“Mr. Potter, you gave us all hope.”

The crowd was pressed in too close for Harry to do anything but shake any hands that got close enough. A few karate chops would be useless against this crush, and his father had him tightly by his other arm anyway. He barely noticed McGonagall shouting. He was in imminent danger of being ripped from his parents’ grasp and lifted on the crowd’s shoulders when she drew her wand.

BANG!

A bright flash and a shower of sparks streamed from the end of McGonagall’s wand, and the crowd backed off. “Mr. Potter is just now becoming reacquainted with the magical world,” she said with a voice that could cut steel, “and he could do without this excessive and misplaced adulation for a victory that was, in all likelihood, his late mother’s doing. He also has a great deal of shopping to do today, as, I might add, do the several muggle-born students whom I am escorting, and we really must be getting on our way.”

At that speech, the patrons sat down in shame, though they still stared and craned their necks to get a glimpse of the Boy-Who-Lived. The pub was filled with whispers about “Harry Potter” and “You-Know-Who” as the group made their way to the back.

“Good God, you would have thought Paul McCartney had walked in,” said Sir William Finch-Fletchley. “Granger…is Harry really seen as a war hero here?”

“Unfortunately,” Dan replied, “but he was only a year old at the time, and he’s been laying low in the muggle world ever since. Long story. You’ll find books about it in the shop.”

More eyebrows were raised as the other families wondered just what had happened with this boy. Hermione was shaking as she stood by her brother’s side.

“I apologise to all of you for that,” McGonagall said as they squeezed into the small walled courtyard behind the pub. “The patrons of the Leaky Cauldron tend to be the more…excitable sort, but I’m afraid I underestimated their reactions. The people in Diagon Alley should be more…sober, at least. And Mr. Potter, I really do believe things will be better for you once the novelty’s worn off. Now, then, to get into Diagon Alley, you need to find the brick three bricks up and two across from the rubbish bin. Tap the brick three times with either a wand or one of your charmed necklaces, like so.”

A small hole opened in the brick in question and widened until it became an archway wide enough to walk four abreast. Thoughts of the mob behind them were momentarily pushed aside as the group beheld the wonder of Diagon Alley.

It was by far the most magic even the Grangers had seen. Along the crooked cobblestone street were shops selling all sorts of items from cauldrons to telescopes to broomsticks to barrels of bat wings to things they didn’t even recognise. Owls of every description winged their way through the air with letters in their beaks. Little outdoor stalls sold food and magazines and all sorts of little charmed trinkets, whizzing through the air or hopping in little circles along the ground. The colours were dazzling, if rather gaudy in some places.

When they had all seen their fill from the archway, the group stepped out into the Alley so they had more room. The arch closed behind them.

McGonagall began handing out sheets of parchment to each family. “These are maps of the Alley,” she explained. “I would advise you all to stay in Diagon Alley and not to venture into Knockturn Alley, which is, quite frankly, what you would call a bad sort of neighbourhood. I will be accompanying Mr. Potter and his family personally for the afternoon. I trust you can each handle your own shopping, although if you need help, most of the shoppers and shopkeepers in the Alley are usually helpful to muggle-born students. You will, however, first want to follow us to Gringotts Wizarding Bank. Some of the shops accept pounds, but you will at some point need to convert them to galleons and optionally open up an account. To be safe, you will probably want to convert thirty galleons for supplies and any other purchases you wish to make. Afterwards, we will meet up at Fortescue’s Ice Cream Parlour at five o’clock. Are there any questions? No? Then follow me, please.”

She led the pack of muggle-born families down the Alley. A number of people spotted Harry and pointed him out, but seeing him flanked closely by three adults, one of whom they knew for a strict professor who was now brandishing a wand with a fierce look, they kept their distance. A little ways down the Alley, they came to a towering marble building that looked like something transplanted from ancient Greece. Standing beside the main doors were two strange little humanoid creatures in scarlet and gold uniforms. They were rather unattractive creatures, bald, with pale, dome-shaped heads, long, pointed noses and ears, and very long fingers that ended in yellow claws. They were barely four feet tall, but the large, wicked battle axes they carried dispelled any doubt that they meant business. The newcomers hesitated before coming near.

“Gringotts is run by the Goblin Nation,” McGonagall explained. “They look intimidating, but if you deal with them politely, they will reciprocate.” She walked toward the doors and bowed to the guards, who bowed in return. One of the guards made a subtle gesture, and the doors opened on their own. The other visitors bowed as they passed the guards. The Grangers began to wonder silently, though. A History of Magic spoke far more about “Goblin Rebellions’ than about the creatures running the banks.

A pair of silver doors flanked by another pair of guards led into the building from a small foyer. On the doors was engraved:

Enter, stranger, but take heed

Of what awaits the sin of greed,

For those who take, but do not earn,

Must pay most dearly in their turn.

So if you seek beneath our floors

A treasure that was never yours,

Thief, you have been warned, beware

Of finding more than treasure there.

“Hey, I like that,” Harry said. “I should put that on the door of my room or something.”

“Ha! Your room?” Hermione shot back. “You’re the one who’s always taking my books.”

“They’re not just your books, Mione—”

“Kids, not now,” Emma cut them off.

They entered through the silver doors. A long row of counters lined each side of a large, if dimly-lit chamber. Dozens of goblins sat behind them, figuring and ciphering and weighing coins and jewels. Behind the counters, tellers were leading witches and wizards through doors to stone passages that must have led off to the vaults. McGonagall made for one of the counters seemingly at random.

“Good morning,” she said. “Harry Potter needs to access his vault, and I suspect his adoptive parents would like to open one for his sister.”

The goblin eyed said adoptive parents with suspicion. There were enough people coming in lately pretending to be Harry Potter to get access to the Potter Vault. “Do you have his key, madam?” he asked McGonagall.

She pulled a small gold key out of her handbag and placed it on the counter. The goblin picked it up and recognised its magical signature at once as a genuine Gringotts key. “Excuse me a moment,” he said.

The Grangers looked at each other in confusion. Behind them, the other families had fanned out to convert their money. A minute later, the teller returned with a stack of papers. Dan and Emma were surprised to see the one on top was a copy of Harry’s muggle adoption papers. Under that was what looked like an account statement written in a strange, angular script on parchment.

“How interesting,” the teller said as he examined the statement.

“Yes?” Dan said.

The teller looked up and stared at him with black eyes. “It would appear that a portion of the Potter fortune was set aside in trust by James and Lily Potter for education costs—tuition and supplies—both for Harry Potter and any adoptive siblings of his.”

Dan’s and Emma’s eyes went wide. “You mean…You mean Hermione’s education is completely paid for?” he said.

“May I?” McGonagall said, looking pointedly at Harry. At a nod from him, she examined the statement for herself. “It would appear so, Mr. Granger. There are five thousand galleons in this allocation, easily enough to put three students through Hogwarts or two through a mastery.”

Dan and Emma stared at each other and started laughing, prompting annoyed grunts from the tellers. Hermione began crying and hugged her brother. Of course, they could have supported both children through school on their own if they had to, but it was wonderful to see that Harry’s birth parents had been so considerate to pay for the children of any family that had taken him in. Harry had to wonder if some of that money had been once been intended for Dudley—almost certainly not intended, he decided, but they must have considered the possibility.

Dan took the statement to see it for himself, and Hermione broke away and stood on her toes to look. “And how much is a galleon, exactly?” he asked.

“The current rate is fifty-one point two five pounds,” the goblin huffed.

Hermione looked at the bottom line and let out a loud squeak. “Eighty thousand galleons! Harry, you’re a millionaire!”

Harry stumbled and braced himself against the counter. “I am…?”

“The Potters have always been a fairly wealthy family,” McGonagall explained, “like most of the members of the Wizengamot—”

A low growl made them jump as the goblin cleared his throat. “If you’re quite ready, Griphook will escort you to Mr. Potter’s vault.”

“Follow me, please,” a gruff voice said from beside them before they could delay any further. Griphook led the Grangers and McGonagall out of the marble chamber to a dark stone passageway. He then stepped into a mine cart and motioned for the others to join him. Even McGonagall looked uncomfortable as they did. They soon found out why, as the cart took off down the track, running as fast as any roller coaster and far less securely, steering itself through a maze of twisting passages and a dozen different forks. They could just make out the tunnel as it was lit by flaming torches, and some of the stalactites appeared to come perilously close to the riders’ heads. Hermione screamed most of the way, and her mother wasn’t much better off.

“Somebody really needs to introduce the magical world to the Health and Safety Executive!” Dan shouted as the cart jerked around a particularly tight corner. Griphook responded by letting out a low, guttural laugh.

The cart levelled out over an underground lake in an enormous cavern, and the Grangers finally calmed down and looked about in wonder at the massive columns that stretched from floor to ceiling and stalactites and stalagmites that grew nearly as far. Not far past the lake, they finally rolled to a stop.

“Here it is,” Griphook said. “Vault Six Hundred Eighty-Seven.” He unlocked the door, and a suspicious green smoke briefly billowed out.

Even after seeing how much money Harry had on paper, the Grangers gasped when they saw the inside of the vault. Gold coins were stacked up almost as tall as Harry, and there were multiple piles of mingled silver and bronze. A stack of life-sized magical portraits leaned against one wall. The one on top showed what they guessed was a Potter ancestor from the seventeenth century sleeping in a gilded chair in front of a picture window. That same chair, they soon realised, was sitting in the opposite corner of the vault with several other pieces of antique furniture. A wardrobe stood beside the door, which they found contained several very expensive-looking dresses and dress robes, including a wedding dress, all surprisingly well-preserved. Several large boxes were stacked against another wall. Harry opened one of them with his family watching over his shoulder. They gasped again when they saw what was inside: twenty generations’ worth of family jewelry in gold and silver and stones of every colour.

“Wow, Harry, you’ve got enough stuff here for a whole ball,” Hermione said, before squealing with delight when she saw the true prize in the vault: a box underneath the jewelry labelled “Rare Books.”

The family bookworm was a little disappointed when she found that a majority of the rare books were not in English, but the ones they could interpret were intriguing: there was an autographed first edition of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them; an older tome on the same subject called Rare Arcane Faunae of Western Europe; treatises on alchemy by Nicolas Flamel, Paracelsus, and Judah Loew; something that from the pictures looked like an ancient Runic copy of Tales of Beedle the Bard; a book in a language they couldn’t identify that seemed to be about wands; surprisingly, a copy of James VI’s witch-hunting guide, Daemonologie; and, most astonishingly, a book called Magicae Lucis et Opticarum by Sir Isaac Newton.

“Hermione, we have a lot of shopping to do. We can always come back another time,” Emma told her daughter gently. Hermione reluctantly tore herself away from looking through the remaining books, insisting on taking with her (with Harry’s permission) only a nineteenth century text called Magic of the World’s Cultures. Meanwhile, Emma counted out sixty galleons from the stacks and stashed them in her purse. “How much are the other ones?” she asked.

“Seventeen sickles to the galleon, twenty-nine knuts to the sickle,” Griphook said curtly.

“What, prime numbers?” Dan said.

“Yes,” the goblin replied, as if it were perfectly reasonable. “Come on, if you’re finished.”

After another very rough cart ride back to the front, Dan and Emma opened an account for Hermione, putting in most of the money they had brought for supplies, leaving ten galleons for general spending money and the extra books Hermione was sure to want, before finally stepping back, blinking, into the sunlight.

First year students will require:

1. Three sets of plain work robes (black)
2. One plain pointed hat (black) for day wear
3. One pair of protective gloves (dragon hide or similar)
4. One winter cloak (black, silver fastenings)

Please note that all pupils ’ clothes should carry name tags

After grabbing lunch at one of the shops, the Grangers proceeded to Madam Malkin’s for their uniforms. Madam Malkin, to her credit, was calm, professional, and saw them through quickly without letting anyone approach Harry. The fact that Professor McGonagall was hovering over her shoulder might have contributed to that a little.

1 cauldron (pewter, standard size 2) set

1 set of glass or crystal phials

1 set brass scales

Potage’s Cauldron Shop had a few of the well-wishers from the Leaky Cauldron hanging around it, but they were still keeping their distance from McGonagall. Dan and Emma weren’t too happy about the requirement of a pewter cauldron. (“Shouldn’t be brewing anything in something that melts that easily,” Dan said.) But that was the requirement, and they were reassured that the cauldrons had fire-protection charms. They went with the collapsible variety, since they knew all the spare space in the trunks would be filled with books.

1 telescope

The whole family had more than a passing interest in space, so they checked out all of the options. Harry was drawn to a high-end model with a five-inch lens, a tripod, automatic star alignment, and magical contrast enhancement, but on the advice of the very eager shopkeeper, he accepted the two-inch student model that he could actually carry up to the top of the Astronomy Tower.

PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS.

“Come along, Harry. Do well this year, and we’ll think about getting you one next summer.”

Students may also bring, if they wish, an owl OR a cat OR a toad.

“Are you going to take Rowena with you?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve been talking to her, and I don’t think she wants to go,” Harry said.

“Oh? Why not?”

“She’s getting kind of old. I think she’s thirteen, and that’s like seventy in cat years. I don’t think she wants to move at her age.”

“That’s probably for the best at that age, Harry,” Professor McGonagall said. “I would recommend that you buy an owl, though. It would be very helpful for sending messages, and having your own, they will usually be more loyal and reliable than the school owls.”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Dan said. “Would you like an owl, kids?”

“Sure.”

“Yeah.”

They went over to Eeylops Owl Emporium, which was too dark to see in properly, but that meant that the owls were awake and active. Harry immediately gravitated toward a beautiful snowy owl, and no one could fault his choice, even if she did have a bit of a chip on her shoulder around him. After all, given Harry’s youth, she was probably the superior predator of the two.

“What are you going to name her?” his father asked.

“How about Helga?” Harry said. The owl gave him what he could swear was a disapproving glare.

“I don’t think she likes it, Harry,” Hermione said. “I think she looks more like a…Hedwig.”

“Who?”

“Hedwig of Vienna. She invented the Flame-Freezing Charm to fight the Inquisition.”

The owl hooted at Hermione and…did she just nod her head?

“See, she likes it.”

“Alright, you win, Hedwig,” Harry told the owl.

1 wand

A tinkling bell announced their entrance into the shabby little shop. It was like no other place the children had visited. It was positively humming with magic from the thousands of wands stacked from floor to ceiling, like the singing of a great choir, far away. Hermione thought she could hear a particular note rising above the rest, but they both felt that they could almost swim in the magic. As they took it in, an old man with wild white hair and unblinking silver eyes looked up from where he was carving a piece of wood. “Good afternoon,” he said.

“Hello,” the Grangers replied.

“Ah, yes, I thought I’d be seeing you soon, Mr. Potter,” he said. “You have your mother’s eyes, you know. It seems like it was only yesterday when I sold her her first wand.”

“You remember her?” Harry said.

“Oh, I remember every wand I’ve ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand.” He began to lean closer to Harry as he spoke. Emma unconsciously tightened her grip on her children. The old man was starting to get creepy. “Your mother’s wand was ten and a quarter inches, willow, and unicorn hair—nice and swishy, great for charms work. Your father’s wand, on the other hand, was eleven inches, mahogany, and dragon heartstring—pliable and excellent for transfiguration.

Harry backed away as the man came almost nose to nose with him. He seemed to be staring at his scar.

“Ah, but I’m terribly sorry,” he seemed to snap out of it and turned to the rest of his family. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Mr. Ollivander, these are Harry’s adoptive parents, Dan and Emma Granger,” McGonagall said. “Their daughter, Hermione, is also starting at Hogwarts this year.”

“I see. I have seen some other muggle-borns come through here today. “Well, then, let’s get you out of the way first, my dear. I suspect your…brother may have more…particular tastes.”

Not helping the creepiness, Emma thought.

“Which is your wand arm, Miss Granger?”

“Well, um, I guess it’s this one,” Hermione said, holding out her right arm.

“Very good.” Mr. Ollivander pulled out a long tape measure, which leapt from his hand and began measuring her arm. The tape measure held a quill with its far end like the tail of a snake and was writing figures on a ledger.

“A very complex business, wand-making,” Ollivander monologued in that strange, almost sing-song voice of his. “It is the wand that chooses the witch or wizard, rather than vice-versa—at least if it is done properly. The wand wood will be sensitive to your temperament and personality—we use dozens of types of wood here. Of course, only the highest quality wood is made into an Ollivander wand, and no two Ollivander wands are alike, just as no two trees are alike.

The tape measure took the distance around Hermione’s head, and then measured the distance between her nostrils.

“But each wand also contains a core of a powerful magical substance. We use the heartstrings of dragons, the tail hairs of unicorns, and the tail feathers of phoenixes. It is the wand core that is sensitive to your natural magical talents. Every wand has different magical talents of its own, and it will desire to find a match who shares them. Only when matched to the wand that chooses you will you be able to cast spells to your full potential, whereas any other wand will resist your command.”

Just when Dan and Emma were starting to wonder if Ollivander was barmy talking about wands having minds of their own, he stopped the tape measure with a snap of his fingers and went back into the stacks. He didn’t even look at the measurements.

They had no idea how he could pick out a wand from all the possibilities, but just a few moments later, they heard him cry out, “Oh! Oh my! Could it be?” He came back, removing a light-coloured wand carved with an intricate leafy design from a long, thin box. “Vine wood and dragon heartstring,” he said excitedly, placing it in Hermione’s hand. “Ten and three quarter inches—go ahead, give it a wave.”

Hermione felt that distinct high note of magic rise to a fever pitch. When she took the wand in her hand, she felt as if her whole arm was electrified. She knew instinctively, even before she waved it, that it was the one for her. But she still gave the wand a tentative flick, and a stream of pure white sparks shot from the end and spread out in a ring around the room. She jumped back with a squeak and nearly dropped the wand, but Ollivander’s face lit up.

“Oh, marvellous!” he exclaimed. “Vine will show—by far the most eager of all woods, though it’s very rare that I’ve seen such a connection before even touching it. I could already feel it humming on its shelf, something I have only felt twice before in all my years of wandcrafting.”

“Really, sir?” Herimone said.

“Oh, yes. You must be very in tune with your magic to make such a strong connection. That is a powerful wand, Miss Granger—a wand of hidden depths and great vision, undoubtedly like yourself. I will be eager to hear of your exploits in the coming years.”

Hermione grinned at the compliment, though her parents were sceptical. That description sounded more like a horoscope than anything else, though Harry’s ordeal would soon show them how difficult finding a match could be.

“Now…for Mr. Potter…” the old man started up his tape measure again.

Ollivander didn’t find Harry’s wand on the first try, nor on the second or the third. In fact, the pile soon grew to over two dozen. Every wand Harry tried gave off a quiver of magic, but it always felt cold, or dulled, or sharp, like a slap across his hand. And they all seemed to push away from him, some less and some more, like the wrong pole of a magnet. He was starting to understand what Ollivander said about unsuited wands resisting him.

“Mr. Ollivander, has your family really been making wands since 382 BC?” Hermione asked to pass the time.

“Of course,” the old man said without slowing his pace of testing wands. “Well, not precisely. Modern wands were not invented until the twelfth century. The earliest wizards used large staffs. But the first Ollivander came to Britain with the Romans and settled here to take advantage of the high quality of the local trees. We are one of the oldest families in Britain.”

“Wait, the Romans?” Dan said. “The Roman conquest wasn’t until 43 AD.” Ollivander gave him a bemused look.

In frustration, Harry tried to force his magic through one of the wands. It backfired, blasting out of his hand with a little flash of light and stinging his hand. Ollivander turned back to him.

“Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we’ll find the perfect match here somewhere—I wonder, now—yes, why not—unusual combination—holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple.”

Harry took the wand. He felt a sudden warmth in his fingers. He raised the wand above his head, brought it swishing down through the dusty air and a stream of red and gold sparks shot from the end like a firework, throwing dancing spots of light on to the walls.

Mr. Ollivander cried, “Oh, bravo! Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well…how curious…how very curious…”

“Sorry, but what’s curious?”

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare.

“It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand gave another feather—just one other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when it’s brother—why it’s brother gave you that scar.”

Harry flinched back and to the side, cat-like, as he rarely did anymore, and fixed his eyes back on the wandmaker. The others sucked in a breath. “What does that mean, sir?” he asked, nearly hissing the question.

“That is for you to decide, Mr. Potter. The wand chooses the wizard, remember, but it is the wizard who must choose how to wield it. But I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter…After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things—terrible, yes, but great.”

Harry took his wand uneasily, pondering the old wandmaker’s words, and the Grangers paid seven galleons apiece for the pair. That seemed like quite a lot for something as delicate as a stick, but Ollivander assured them they were charmed to be considerably stronger than ordinary wood. They left the shop in silence, even Professor McGonagall, wondering just what kind of consequences might come about from Harry’s unique match of wand.

First students should have a copy of each of the following:

The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 1) by Miranda Goshawk

A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot

Magical Theory by Adalbert Waffling

A Beginners ’ Guide to Transfiguration by Emeric Switch

One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi by Phyllida Spore

Magical Drafts and Potions by Arsenius Jigger

Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them by Newt Scamander

The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self Protection by Quentin Trimble

They already had one copy of A History of Magic, but the others were all lined up for incoming students at the front of the shop. Most of the course books were quite large, but they were also used over multiple years. But even after picking them up, Hermione (and the others, for that matter) wanted to browse the store. She quickly grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells (Grade 2), the only additional book for second years, to “work ahead,” while Harry, perhaps influenced by Mr. Ollivander’s words, collected the two other Defence textbooks used by the upper years. Dan and Emma, determined to broaden their knowledge of recent wizarding events, picked up The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts and Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century.

They later found Harry standing frozen in front of a prominent rack of books in the children’s section.

“Harry, we have to go soon,” his mother said. “What is it?”

Harry just pointed to the sign above the rack: The Harry Potter Adventures.

“Oh, my.”

They were children’s books, written on a Year Five or Six reading level. There were nine in the series, supposedly detailing each of the years from 1982 through 1990. The cover of each book showed a boy who actually looked reasonably like the real Harry, minus the glasses, having magical adventures in a different exotic location around the world.

“Harry Potter in the Congo? Harry Potter and the Temple of Doom? Harry Potter on the Rio Bravo?” Hermione read off some of the titles. “Modern Magical History says he was sent to live with muggles,” she complained to their mother. “Don’t they know this has to be complete fiction?”

“Oh come on, you know that’s just a cover story,” said a little redheaded girl who came up and looked over the shelves. “Ooh, they have the new one: Harry Potter Down Under.”

She grabbed a copy, and Harry quickly followed suit. The cover showed a ten-year-old “Harry Potter” standing in a desert, wearing an Akubra hat, carrying a platypus on his shoulder, and leading a Tasmanian tiger on a leash.

“Okay, that doesn’t even look like me,” he said.

“Well, it kinda does,” Hermione replied.

“I’ve still never been to Australia.”

They heard the little girl suck in a breath. Harry turned to face her, and she gasped and staggered backwards, clutching the book to her chest.

“Ginny, get your book and come on. I have to start dinner at home.” A plump woman with long, frizzy red hair came up behind her, dragging an equally red-haired set of twins by their wrists.

“M-M-Mum…” Ginny stuttered, pointing at Harry.

“Oh, my,” the woman said.

“Blimey, are you—” one of the twins said.

“He is, aren’t you?” the other finished.

“Fred, George, don’t bother him,” their mother scolded. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Potter. I’m sure you have more interesting things to read than these things.”

“Huh? Oh, actually I was just going to get myself a set,” Harry said idly, trying to ignore the fact that random adults kept calling him “Mr. Potter.” He started taking a copy of each book from the shelf.

“Really, why?” Emma said.

“Well, I want to find out what people are saying about me.”

“Harry Potter reading about—”

“—Harry Potter,” the twins said.

“Brilliant!”

“Best prank we’ve seen all summer.”

“Boys! Come along!” their mother ordered. She dragged them away. Ginny gave Harry a lingering look over her shoulder as she followed.

“Well, I think that’s enough books for one day,” Emma said. “Let’s go find your father and pay for them so we can get back to Professor McGonagall.”

A half hour later, the muggle-born group shared a laugh at the Harry Potter books over ice cream after hearing a more subdued retelling of the true story. Even Harry laughed at how absurd the stories were that he found whilst thumbing through the books. But underneath the humour, there was an edge of concern: just what was the magical world expecting from Harry Potter? And how would they react to the real truth?

“Good evening, Minerva. I trust the orientation went well,” Albus said as Minerva sat down heavily across the desk from him.

“As well as could be expected, I suppose, Albus,” she said. “I was forced to fend off Harry Potter’s admirers on several occasions. The boy is understandably uncomfortable with his fame.”

“Better that than revelling in it, I should think,” Albus said. “I have seen far too many go down that road. I am sure he will adjust in time. Though I wonder if perhaps it would have helped to have Hagrid escort him.”

Minerva rolled her eyes. Hagrid was imposing, but he wasn’t exactly one to know when to take a firm hand. “Be that as it may, there was one thing that worries me greatly.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“When we purchased Harry’s wand, Albus. Ollivander told us that the wand that chose him was brother to You-Know-Who’s.”

The Headmaster raised an eyebrow and glanced at Fawkes, who nodded and trilled softly. Of course, something like that would happen, with the prophecy and all. He knew that wand well. He had enquired with Ollivander about it personally. To his mind, though, it was the choice of wood that concerned him more than the brother core. Holly wood was volatile, impetuous, and short-tempered, traits he would have hoped to have been calmed by the boy’s life with the Grangers. Yet phoenix feather did carry the calm and detachment of its giver. Together, if they could be controlled, they made a quester’s wand, and a powerful one at that. That was a trait young Harry would need.

“I do not think that is too surprising,” he said carefully. “For several reasons. We have already seen that Harry’s fate and Voldemort’s, unfortunately, are inextricably linked. That this wand chose him is only another sign of that. I see no reason for additional concern at this time; we should merely continue to keep an eye on the boy.”

Minerva gave him a stern look, but she seemed to accept this for the time being.

“What of his sister’s wand?” he asked curiously. “It will be interesting to see how the two of them fare together, magically.”

“Ah, vine wood and dragon heartstring,” she answered. “Ollivander saw the connection before she even touched it.”

“How interesting…” That was more surprising that Harry’s wand, Albus thought. Another uncommon and strong combination, if he remembered his wand lore correctly. Vine was known for movers and shakers, and when combined with such a strong connection and especially a dragon core indicated great talent. With Hermione Granger standing at her brother’s side, they would truly be a force to be reckoned with. Albus had a feeling this was going to be an eventful seven years.

The Grangers were very surprised when Cousin Andi showed up unannounced on Monday morning and even more surprised when, when asked why she was there, she held up a newspaper with an admittedly blurry moving picture on the front page that showed the four of them walking down Diagon Alley with Professor McGonagall.

“I think you’d better read this,” she said.

The Daily Prophet

Monday, 29 July 1991

HARRY POTTER RETURNS!

By Rita Skeeter

Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and Savior of the Wizarding World, has not been seen in public since his stunning defeat of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named nearly ten years ago. That all changed on Saturday when young Mr. Potter made his long-awaited return to wizarding Britain, venturing out into Diagon Alley to purchase his supplies for his first year at Hogwarts.

It appears that the Boy-Who-Lived will, indeed, be attending Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year, fulfilling the hopes of many, although the security around him remains very tight. We can deduce both of these facts from eyewitness reports that Potter was closely guarded the entire day by Hogwarts Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall, who was seen hexing any admirers who dared approach him.

Hogwarts Headmaster and Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore has refused for the past ten years to reveal anything about Potter ’s whereabouts, leading many in the community including the Prophet to ask why. Death Eater activity has been virtually nonexistent since the fall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and Dumbledore’s continued insistence that said dark lord may not be dead is a view now shared only by a few. Potter no longer appears to be in such danger as to warrant his tight security, as Dumbledore claims. Does Dumbledore have ulterior motives for keeping the boy so isolated? Is he perhaps grooming a successor who shares in his political views or an ally to expand his already-extensive network of influence in the wizarding world? We at the Prophet demand an accounting for Dumbledore’s actions.

Meanwhile, as to Potter’s actual whereabouts, we have few clues. Inside sources at the Ministry of Magic claimed shortly after his parents’ deaths that he had been placed with a muggle family, possibly relations of his muggle-born mother, Lily Potter, née Evans. However, many others speculate that Potter has been travelling the world and learning arcane magic, and that the popular children’s book series, The Harry Potter Adventures, contains more than a little truth, something that series author Wendell Somerlad has never explicitly denied.

But a new and intriguing clue came on Saturday, as multiple witnesses claimed to have seen the Boy-Who-Lived shopping with the family of an unidentified muggle-born witch who is also starting at Hogwarts this year. (The Hogwarts muggle-born student orientation was also held on Saturday.) Unfortunately, the security around the boy meant that this family could not be approached for questions, but this reporter was able to obtain an exclusive comment from famed wandmaker Garrick Ollivander, who sold both Potter and his companion their first wands. “Oh, yes, she was definitely a muggle-born girl. I would have recognised her parents otherwise. And a fine young witch she was, too. I could tell she was very gifted just from the sight of her. Yes, I think we can expect great things from both of them,” Ollivander said.

Was Harry Potter indeed raised by muggles, as the Ministry sources say? Is it merely coincidence that they appear to have a witch in their family as well? Or has the Boy-Who-Lived already succeeded in acquiring a girlfriend before his eleventh birthday, breaking the hearts of young witches everywhere? Neither Mr. Potter nor his proxy on the Wizengamot, Andromeda Tonks, who is presumed to be his point of contact with the wizarding world, could be reached at press time.

We at the Prophet wish Mr. Potter a happy eleventh birthday this Wednesday, wherever he may be staying, and a successful first year at Hogwarts. And we would also like to extend and open invitation for an interview to Mr. Potter and Madam Tonks to tell enquiring minds of the exciting life of the Boy-Who-Lived.

“Eww! They think I’m your girlfriend?” Hermione exclaimed when they finished reading.

“Wait a minute, Professor McGonagall didn’t ‘hex’ anyone,” Dan observed.

“It’s Rita Skeeter,” Andi explained. “She thrives on speculation and sensationalism. We’re lucky that article was as accurate as it was, and we’re even luckier that she didn’t manage to get a hold of the rest of your names. Ollivander may be…eccentric, but he’s smarter than he looks. Unfortunately, a lot of people still believe whatever she says.”

“Well that’s just great,” Dan said. “Not only is Harry famous, but the press can just make things up about him.”

“Is there anything we can do about her?” Harry asked.

“Not much, sorry. Skeeter can be infuriating, but she’s wicked smart. She always stops just short of saying anything that’s provably defamatory, at least at the time. And she always stops just short of anything that would get her challenged to a duel.”

“Huh? You still have honour duels?” Emma said uneasily.

“The old families still do it sometimes. Although no one’s fought an honour duel to the death in decades, if that’s what you mean. Anyway, it gets worse.”

“Worse? How?” Harry said.

“Harry, they just told everyone when your birthday is, and that I’m your point of contact. I’ve got over a hundred pieces of fan mail addressed to you already.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. “I get fan mail?”

“He gets fan mail?” Hermione echoed.

Andi shook her head in annoyance. “You don’t even want to know how much fan mail. Remember, you’re famous worldwide for surviving the Killing Curse, although Britain’s got it the worst for you. There are letters praising your supposed duelling skills. People just hoping to get your autograph. People asking you to make public appearances on every continent, including Antarctica. Pleas for help in fighting petty dark lords in Rwanda, Somalia, Iraq, and Colombia. Honestly, you’re better off not seeing or thinking about them.” Harry looked genuinely shocked at these revelations and was forced to nod in agreement. If those were the kinds of letters he got, he was probably better off not knowing. “Oh, and you’ve got acceptance letters from literally every school of magic in the world except the training camp in North Korea,” Andi added. “I could show you those if you like, but…”

“We’ve already discussed our options with Professor Dumbledore,” Emma confirmed. “But why don’t the owls come here, then?”

“It all goes to my office at the Ministry. It’s standard practice for Wizengamot members. I’ll show you how to arrange direct delivery of letters from your friends and family.”

“Thank you,” Harry said.

“The important thing, though, is that we need to decide how to respond to this. The fan mail—the easiest thing would just be to donate anything that comes in that way. But for the article, my plan was to write a letter to the editor asking people to respect Harry’s privacy. The question is how much you want to reveal in that letter—My recommendation would be as little as possible.”

“Really?” Dan said.

“Not even the girlfriend part?” Hermione protested.

“No, for two reasons. One, it’ll show that we’re serious about the privacy part. And two, I know it sounds counterintuitive, but we’ll get better penetration if we let it sit for a few weeks and have the truth come out in a breaking news story rather than a letter to the editor now.”

“Hmm…” Dan considered it. “I guess we can trust your judgement on that for the time being. You know more about the wizarding press than we do. But please let us know if they write any more stories about Harry.”

“I’ll do you one better. Harry, I was going to tell you for your birthday, but I’ve bought you two subscriptions to the Daily Prophet, one for school and one for your parents at home. Like it or not, you’ll need to keep up with the goings on in the magical world from now on.”

“Thanks.”

“There’s another part, too.” Andi turned to Dan and Emma. “I know it’s short notice, but Ted and I would like to invite all four of you to come to our house next Saturday and spend a week there.”

Dan and Emma were pretty well gobsmacked by that one. “A week!” Emma said. “Why…that’s very generous of you. I suppose we could rearrange things at our practice, but—what brought this on, may I ask?”

“Simple. Harry’s the head of a Noble House, and while people will generally understand about him raised by muggles, he and Hermione will both need to know how to navigate the waters. Harry, Hermione, you will be going to school with children of suspected Death Eaters; they haven’t caused too much trouble in the past, but you’ll definitely need to watch out for them. You’ll also be going with children of Noble Families, and most of the students will be more familiar with the magical world than you are. So Ted and I would like you to spend a week with us so you can learn about life in a magical household and about how to interact with people in that environment. I doubt politics is much more interesting to you than it is to me, but it is something you need to know about. So what do you say?”

“I think you had Hermione from “learn,’” Harry said with a grin.

Hermione shot him an annoyed look. “Staying a magical house? Of course! Can we go, Mum and Dad, please?”

“Well, it sounds like it’s pretty important,” Dan said. “Andi, that really is very generous of you, and we’d love to join you for a week.”

“Great,” Andi said, smiling for the first time that morning. She handed them a card. “Here’s our address. It’s in muggle London, so you should have no problem finding it. There’s just one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Remember a few years ago when we discussed magical guardianship?”

They remembered. They had wanted to get Dumbledore off the paperwork from the start, by Andi had advised them not to put any activity on Harry’s file to avoid unwanted attention.

“Of course,” Emma said.

She took out some papers. “Well, now that Harry’s been revealed to the magical world, there’s no need to hide our arrangements. If you still want, I’d be happy to take over as both his and Hermione’s magical guardian, now.”

Dan and Emma smiled broadly. “We’d be honoured if you would,” Dan said. “I’m glad Harry has such a good family in your world to rely on.”

“Well, it may have been twisted a bit over the years, but family is very important in our world—in both worlds, really. It’s not just a witch and wizard thing; it’s the way things are supposed to be.”

“I quite agree.”

They quickly signed the paperwork and hammered out the arrangements for the following week. But as Andi turned to leave, though, Emma stopped her.

“What is it?”

“Something in that article,” Emma said. “I get that it’s tabloid journalism, but still…All this time, we’ve mainly been seeing Dumbledore’s view of things…Do you think it’s possible Voldemort might actually be dead?”

A shadow crossed Andi’s face, and she didn’t speak for a minute. “I think it’s better safe than sorry,” she finally said. “I know even a lot of Dumbledore’s fans don’t believe him anymore, but still, if he is gone, the worst that can happen in all of this is that Harry and Hermione will be more prepared to defend themselves than nineteen out of twenty wizards in our world…But if you’re asking if I think he’s still around somewhere…then, probably yes. I’m just not ready to believe it’s over yet.” With that, she went on her way.

The Daily Prophet

Wednesday, 31 July 1991

Letter to the Editor by Andromeda Tonks

The Prophet is correct in surmising that I—or rather my office at the Ministry—am Harry Potter ’s point of contact with the magical world. As his proxy and his nearest magical relative who is not in Azkaban, this was a natural choice, and my office serves as his standard Owl Post forwarding address for anyone not among his personal contacts.

Mr. Potter would like to thank the wizarding world for its birthday wishes and would like to announce that he will donate all monetary and other gifts forwarded to my office to St. Jerome’s Magical Orphan Trust. To all those who sent pranked, jinxed, booby-trapped, and/or cursed letters, they were, of course, intercepted, and we will find out who you are.

That said, Mr. Potter and his guardians value both their privacy and their security, and we ask the wizarding world to respect their wishes. Neither he nor I will be giving any interviews at this time. Mr. Potter is very busy becoming reacquainted with wizarding Britain and preparing for his studies at Hogwarts and has no interest in speaking to the press except on his own time.

We would also like to clarify that Professor Minerva McGonagall did not hex anyone in Mr. Potter’s presence, although she did keep close to him to prevent undue disruption to his school shopping. We hope that the Prophet’s reporting of Mr. Potter’s affairs will be more accurate in the future, and we will be watching this matter closely.

“Happy birthday, Harry!” the children’s two best friends exclaimed.

“Thanks, guys. Come on in.”

“You changed your hair,” Tiffany observed.

“Uh, yeah…” After his incident at the Leaky Cauldron, Harry had started more carefully combing his wild hair down into bangs to cover his scar. After all, what was merely interesting in the muggle world netted him a lot of uncomfortable looks at best in the magical one. “What do you think?”

“As ridiculous as ever,” she replied. Predictably, bangs or no, it still looked like he hadn’t combed it at all.

With all the Hogwarts business going on, it had been decided to make Harry’s eleventh birthday a small affair, with only his family and his closest friends present. He led Paul and Tiffany to the kitchen, where lunch had been set out buffet-style, and they filed into the living room to talk. They mostly made small talk, but it wasn’t long before the uncomfortable subject came up.

“So, you two are really going off to boarding school all the way up in Scotland?” Paul said as he dug into his second slice of pizza.

“Uh huh,” Hermione said carefully. “Harry’s a legacy student from his birth parents, so we both got a scholarship.”

“Wow, that’s great,” Tiffany said. She had put down her plate for a moment to pet Rowena, who had taken a liking to her over the years. “And what was it called again?”

“Hogwarts School for Gifted Youngsters,” Harry repeated the cover story they had devised.

Their blond friend giggled, and Paul guffawed. “Seriously? They need a better name. That sounds like a lamer version of X-Men.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I know it sounds a little strange, but they’re supposed to be really good.”

“Well, that’s great for you. It’s too bad we can’t all be at the same school again, though.” They already hadn’t seen all that much of Paul over the past year, as he was a year ahead of them and had started secondary school that year. “Do you know if they take transfers?”

“No, sorry,” Hermione said. “They’re really exclusive. I only got in because of Harry’s legacy status.”

“I doubt that,” Paul retorted. “Our Hermione could get into any school in the world.” Hermione blushed at that. For magical schools, Harry thought it wasn’t far from the truth. “Well, good luck, up there,” Paul said. “It just won’t be the same without you, mate.”

“Yeah, the same here,” Harry admitted. “But hey, we can still write.”

“Besides, Paul, at least you still have me,” Tiffany said. She leaned playfully against his shoulder, and Harry and Hermione noted with interest that for the first time they could remember, he didn’t immediately push her away.

Once the pizza was gone, they quickly proceeded to cake and opening presents. Paul had got Harry a couple of video games, which he of course wouldn’t be able to play at Hogwarts, but he didn’t tell him that. Tiffany had got him a miniature combination chess, checkers, and backgammon set, which would be a more useful outlet for his strategic side there. Hermione’s gift was a copy of Jurassic Park, which she failed to understand the boys’ interest in, but was happy to get for her brother. But his parents’ gift was the most practical: a very nice gold-plated mechanical watch (and they later revealed they had bought Hermione a similar one as an early birthday present for her) to tell time in the absence of electricity.

They hung out and talked for most of the afternoon, but the Grangers were partly glad to get the party over with. They still had a lot of preparations to make for the coming week.

“No, you fool! Stuttering like that will only raise their suspicions. Especially Snape’s.”

“My apologies, Master.”

“You’ll have to at least appear to be doing your job properly for this to work. I’m sure you can match the competence of the previous dupes Dumbledore has hired.”

“Yes, Master.”

The Grangers barely had time to look over the newspaper the next morning when they heard a whoosh of flames from the fireplace, and scrambled from their breakfasts to see a bearded face surrounded by emerald green flames.

“Professor Dumbledore! What’s wrong?” Emma shouted. In the past six years, the living room floo had never once been used without Dumbledore informing them beforehand.

“I apologise for calling on you so suddenly, Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” a tired looking Albus Dumbledore said. “And no, I do not believe there is cause for immediate concern.”

No one missed the Headmaster’s careful use of the word “immediate.” “What is it?” Dan said.

With a sigh, Dumbledore continued, “Some years ago, I agreed to inform you at once if there was any suspected Death Eater activity.”

The Grangers put two and two together. Harry paled a little, and Hermione grabbed her mother’s hand for support. “The Gringotts break-in,” Dan said grimly. “You think they were involved?”

“I do. Now, as the article reports, nothing was stolen. This is strictly confidential, mind, but there was already some concern about the item in the vault that was broken into, and it was moved to a more secure location earlier yesterday. I believe this foiled whatever plans the Death Eaters may have, but the fact that they were so bold as to stage an unprecedented break-in at the wizarding bank indicates a larger game may be afoot.”

“Is there anything we need to do?” Emma said.

“No, no. There is nothing to worry about on your end. I have taken steps to ensure your address in the muggle world does not become widely known, and your children will be quite safe at Hogwarts. After all, it is the oldest and strongest magical fortification in Britain. Merely be watchful, and I will keep you apprised of any updates.”

Emma pressed her mouth together rather like Professor McGonagall frequently did, but Dan said, “Very well. Thank you informing us.”

“You’re quite welcome.” With that, Dumbledore’s face vanished from the flames.

“It figures,” Emma said. “Six years of nothing, and then not a week after Harry reappears to them something happens.”

“I know, dear,” Dan said with a sigh. “But he does seem to be on top of it for now. I think all we can do is watch and wait.”

The week at the Tonkses passed quickly, despite the intensive crash course on everything from politics and etiquette among the Noble Houses to the inside scoop on the goings on at Hogwarts, mainly courtesy of Dora. Harry and Hermione weren’t too pleased that they had to worry about navigating around certain students—and professors, for that matter—but they supposed every school was a little like that.

They held a small celebration that week in honour of Dora scoring high enough on her N.E.W.T.s to get into Auror training. She had even received a special citation for successfully summoning her wand to her hand at critical point in her Defence exam, for which she thanked Harry and Hermione profusely. That had been enough for Mad-Eye Moody to select her as his personal protege, his last before he planned to retire. (“If you learn one wandless spell,” his letter had said, “that’s the one.”)

The Grangers all enjoyed being in a magical house. Even compared with modern technology, the various enchantments around the house still made cooking and cleaning easier. Harry and Hermione were fascinated by the assortment of charmed knickknacks, Dora’s old magical toys, and the magical plants in the garden. Dora was all too happy to demonstrate some magic to them and give them a sneak peak at their classes. She also led them around the property so that they could feel out the wards and compare them with their own, which she agreed would be a useful skill in a number of fields.

They mostly stuck around the house, but they did make one trip up to Diagon Alley. Hermione still wanted to take a full inventory of the items in Harry’s Gringotts vault, especially the books, and a time when the Tonkses could come and have three wands out around Harry was as good as any.

“You know, I still don’t really understand about why the Goblin Rebellions are such a big deal in the magical world,” Dan said as they walked down the Alley. “You trust the goblins to run your financial system, now, and it looks like they’re doing a decent job of it.”

“A better question would be why do the pureblood supremacists trust the goblins to run the bank?” Andi countered quietly. “The rebellions are ancient history. The last one was the one led by Urg the Unclean in 1724. The thing is, most of the purebloods still view goblins as inferior, but they’re lazy, so they push off the financial work on them, just like they push off the housework on the house elves.”

“House elves?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, you haven’t read about those? Well, that’s a whole other can of worms there. Anyway, my theory is that they think they’re so superior that they can control the goblins now, which ought to be laughable to anyone who’s actually met a goblin.”

The two families bowed politely to the guards as they entered the marble building. The place was more subdued than before, as goblin and wizard alike were still reeling from the news of last week’s break-in, and security was very tight. A significant number of goblin warriors armed with their wicked axes were guarding the entrances to the tunnels. Once inside, though, Dan found an open counter and, remembering Andi’s advice on goblin etiquette (something else few purebloods bothered with), had Harry’s vault key out already before speaking: “Excuse me, Harry Potter would like to access his vault.”

The goblin teller quickly looked over a key and passed the group on without incident, and after another harrowing ride on the mine cart, they reached the Potter Vault. Dora and Ted then went on to the Tonks Vault to make a withdrawal since Harry’s vault was cramped enough with five people inside, and Dora needed to do some shopping for her Auror training.

“So this is the Potter Family fortune,” Andi said as Hermione made a beeline for the books. “I’ve never seen it myself, although the Blacks had a lot of similar things.”

“Well, we’ve decided to make a full catalogue, in case we need to find something quickly later.”

“Of course, but do let me check some of these things over before you handle them. I wouldn’t expect the Potters to have any cursed items, but you can’t be too careful in these old vaults.”

Andi went through the box of jewelry first, since those were the ones most likely to have enchantments on them, quickly waving her wand over each piece. Many of them turned out to have some spell on them or other, mostly fire-protection charms and anti-theft jinxes. There was a pair of bracelets with an attached note saying they were charmed to protect the wearers from a few common jinxes, which interested Dan and Emma. However, Andi soon figured out that those jinxes were in fashion in the early 1800s and were no longer very common. She did find one booby-trapped Black Family heirloom from Dorea in the box: a tiara that was cursed to give blisters to any muggle who touched it. Andi set it aside, saying that the goblins could remove the curse for a fee.

Meanwhile, Hermione was writing down the title and author of each and every book, carefully copying down the runes for the languages she didn’t recognise. Harry and Dan looked over the wardrobe and the antique furniture.

“What about the portraits?” Emma said, looking at the stack of frames leaning against the remaining wall.

“Hmm, they must have been salvaged from the house,” Andi said.

The portrait on top still showed a middle-aged man sleeping in a chair. He looked like a classic early seventeenth century lord, wearing a tight-fitting doublet and breeches embroidered with a dizzying floral pattern. He had long, sandy-coloured hair down to his shoulder, worn with a wide moustache and a pointed goatee. He sat in front of a picture window that showed an idyllic country scene.

“Who is he?” Emma asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t recognise him…well, let’s wake him up and ask him.”

The Grangers hadn’t seen a talking portrait up close before (the Tonkses didn’t have any family portraits of anyone they considered worth keeping), so they all stopped what they were doing to watch. Andi knocked on the painting’s frame a couple of times, but the sleeping man didn’t respond. She knocked harder, and called to him, but there was still nothing.

“Hmm…” She drew her wand. “Sometimes when these things are inactive for so long, they don’t…” She waved her wand, and a stream of sparks hit the man in the face.

He jerked awake and flailed his arms as he nearly fell out of his gilded chair. “Ah, me! Who dost wake me?” he cried with an accent that sounded vaguely, but not quite, Scottish. “Prithee, who is there?”

The Grangers stood in amazement as the man seemed to approach them from the chair and look about the vault as if the frame were a window. Andi turned to Harry. “Well, he’s your painting.”

He uneasily stepped forward and said, “Hello, sir. I’m Harry Potter.”

“Harry?” the painting said, looking closer. “Oh, thou art the same! Thy face is thy good father’s.” He then reached out and knocked on his frame from the inside. “Awake, my friends, awake! Tis a joyous day! The prodigal son has returned!” From behind the frame, there were suddenly the grunts and moans of other people waking up. “Melania? Where is my Melania?”

“The bottom frame, husband,” a muffled voice said.

Andi sprang into action. “Dan, Emma, set them side by side. There’s only four frames. There should be enough space.” She, Dan, and Emma carefully moved the large frames off the stack as the children watched. They were, after all, large enough for a life-sized portrait to sit comfortably in. “I should warn you,” she said. “The paintings aren’t really alive. They just perform a very good imitation, as you’ll notice if you talk to them for more than a few minutes, although they do retain much of the memories of their subjects.”

In the four paintings, now set beside one another, there was first the sandy-haired man with antiquated speech, then an old man whose grey hair stuck out wildly wherever he had any, which was mostly around the sides of his head. Part of his frame appeared to have been damaged by fire. Then there was an old woman with Andi’s angular cheekbones, and finally, two witches were picking themselves up off an eighteenth century sofa: a tall black woman, and another with flowing blond hair, very pale skin, and piercing blue eyes. The black woman rose to her feet and, to the Grangers’ amazement, crossed through the intervening two frames to sit on the sandy-haired man’s lap.

But through all this Andi was fixated on the older woman. “Great Aunt Dorea?” she said.

“Andromeda? Andromeda Black?” the woman said in a soothing voice. “Yes, I remember you. And this is baby Harry. I can hardly believe it.”

“It’s certainly he, my dear,” the old man said. “He has Lily’s eyes.”

“Um, I’m sorry, but who are you?” Harry said.

“Harry, these two are portraits of your grandparents, Charlus and Dorea Potter,” Andi explained. “As for the others, I don’t know.”

“Ah, Belladonna Black, madam,” the blond woman said. “Née Greengrass. You are a Black as well, then?”

“I was. It’s Andromeda Tonks, now. And you?” Andi said, turning to the other couple.

“Ah, pardon our manners, milady,” the sandy-haired man said, bowing. “Wulfric Henderson Potter, at your service. And she here is my good wife, Melania.”

“Harry, I see now thou art a fine young lad,” Melania said.

“Aye, he is a pretty lording,” Wulfric Henderson Potter said. “Prithee, Harry, what year is it, and how do you call your companions?”

“Um, it’s 1991,” Harry said. “And these are my parents.” All of the portraits gasped in surprise.

“Ah, we’re Harry’s adoptive parents,” Dan clarified. “Daniel and Emma Granger, and this is our daughter, Hermione.”

“Hermione,” Wulfric said wistfully. “A sad tale’s best for winter: I have one of sprites and goblins.”

Hermione blinked a few times. That was not the kind of greeting she was expecting, painting or no. But damned if she didn’t know The Winter’s Tale backwards and forwards. As soon as she came to her senses, she answered, “Let’s have that, good sir. Come on, sit down: come on, and do your best to fright me with your sprites; you’re powerful at it.”

“There was a man—”

“Nay, come, sit down; then on.”

“Dwelt by a churchyard: I will tell it softly; yond crickets shall not hear it.”

“Come on, then, and give’t me in mine ear.”

Wulfric laughed, and the other portraits laughed with him, although if one listened closely, their laughed sounded somewhat canned. “This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the green-sward,” he said. “Thou art a fine student of the great playwright.”

Hermione smiled. “Not describing my namesake on that one, but thank you, sir.”

Harry, meanwhile, was grinning ear to ear at being able to meet his ancestors—or at least something close to them. “Can we put them in our house?” he said.

“Oh, many thanks if you could,” said Belladonna Black. “’Twould be good to escape the darkness of this vault.”

“I’m…sorry. I don’t think so,” Emma said. “We live in a muggle house. We have nowhere we could put you where visitors wouldn’t see you.”

“Well, actually…” Andi said. “I think we could put them up in our house. That way you could at least see them when you visit.”

“Really?”

“Certainly. Harry can ask the goblins to deliver them—for a fee, of course. Madam Melania, where is your frame?”

“I’m afraid it was destroyed in the explosion,” Charlus said, motioning to the burnt corner of his own frame. “She escaped by hiding with her husband in his frame. Donna’s husband, Perseus Black, wasn’t so lucky, I’m afraid.” Belladonna Black sniffed a little.

“Very well, these four frames, then,” Andi said. “We have room for those.”

“Thanks, Cousin Andi—” Harry started to say, when he was cut off by a scream.

“Mum, look at this!”

“Hermione, what is it?” Emma said frantically. Her daughter had started poking through the books again. Had she found a cursed book?

But Hermione was beaming and holding up and enormous and very thick volume bound in leather. “Mum, it’s a complete First Folio!”

“What!” The book was in fair condition: the binding was worn and cracking, and the pages were yellowed, though not yet too brittle. Emma took it in hand and gingerly opened the cover. Sure enough, there was the Bard himself on the title page, and below were the words, “LONDON Printed by Isaac Iaggard and Ed. Blount. 1623.”

“Oh my god, it is!”

“Ah, thou hast found the Folio. Good lass,” Wulfric said. “Thou shouldst find the Sonnets there as well, if they have survived.”

“The Sonnets!” Hermione eagerly dove back into the box and rummaged around until she pulled out a much smaller booklet, the cover of which read, “SHAKE-SPEARES SONNETS. Neuer before Imprinted.” And at the bottom, the date, 1609. But what really caught her eye was what was on the inside of the cover.

“It’s…it’s signed,” she said in awe.

“Signed?” Emma asked.

“To Wulfric Henderson Potter and Melania Shacklebolt on the ioyous occasion of your marriage,” she read off. “Be not selfe-wild, for you are much too faire To be deaths conquests and make wormes your heire. William Shakespeare.” Then she stopped cold when she glanced at the printed dedication page. Wulfric and Melania were showing wide, though slightly fixed smiles to her as she made the connection: “Wulfric Henderson…W.H.!”

The Potter ancestors nodded, and she went weak at the knees. Any Shakespeare scholar would have killed to hold what she held in her hands right now. The First Folio alone was easily worth twenty thousand galleons, but a far rarer copy of the Sonnets, signed to the Fair Youth and the Dark Lady themselves—that was beyond price. As the full implications hit her, for the first time in her life, Hermione Granger fainted.

Hermione was safely curled up on the sofa back at home with a fairly large book when Harry plopped down next to her.

“What’re you reading?”

She glanced at him over the top of the book. “Magical Drafts and Potions.”

“I thought you already read that.”

“I did. I wanted to read it again.”

Harry pushed the book down in front of her. “Hermione, are you trying to memorise your course books?” he asked. Her memory was pretty good. She only had to read something about three times to learn it by heart, but still…

“No…” she said uncomfortably. She lifted the book up to block off her face from him.

Harry pushed it down again. “Hermione…?”

“…Maybe,” she admitted. “But I just want to make sure I’m prepared enough.”

“Mione, has anyone else ever memorised their course books before to prepare for Hogwarts?”

“It can’t hurt, can it,” she snapped as she lifted the book up again.

He pushed it back down. “It can if you go mad first. You need to lighten up a little, sis. We both know you’re gonna make the best grades in class already.”

“We don’t know that yet, Harry. And besides, I think we’re going to need to go over this book a couple more times. It’s really hard to follow.”

“I didn’t think so,” Harry teased. “It’s just like a cookbook.”

Hermione glared at him. “It’s not just a “cookbook.” It’s supposed to teach the principles behind potion making so you can adapt to changes and new situations—but it does a really bad job of explaining why things work the way they do. And from what Cousin Dora said, it doesn’t sound like Professor Snape will be much help either.”

Harry let out a mock gasp. “Did you just criticise a teacher? Who are you, and what have you done with my sister?”

She smacked him on the arm. “Prat. And most of the other course books seem a little amateurish, too.”

“Well, you heard what Mum and Dad said. The wizarding population is so small they don’t have that many books to work with. Even the best over there is only above average by muggle standards.”

“Yeah, I know. At least we’re supposed to be going to the best school around.” Hermione finally willingly put the book down. “Maybe I have got a little uptight about it,” she admitted.

“A little?” Harry said with a grin.

“Okay, a lot.”

“As usual.”

She smacked him in the arm again.

“Okay, okay, I’m done—Hey, play me at chess?”

A wicked grin crossed his sister’s face. “Only if you’re ready to lose.”

Platform Nine and Three Quarters was a bustle of activity on the first of September, filled with hundreds of families sending their children off to Hogwarts. Owls hooted in their cages, cats caterwauled in their carriers or just wandered between people’s legs, and a chatter of voices filled the air. A giant scarlet engine stood at one end of the platform, followed by half a dozen old-fashioned-looking passenger cars. Along the back wall, a little row of vendors was selling magazines and charmed trinkets and breakfast sandwiches, mainly to the parents. Harry and his family were pleased to see that there was too much activity here for anyone to give him much notice.

By unspoken agreement, the Grangers headed for the less crowded part of the platform near the rear of the train. They were sure the whole train would fill up eventually, but it would be good to get on board and stake out a compartment early.

“This one looks good,” Dan said as they came to a compartment in the last car. His children nodded noncommittally. “Alright, let’s get you two loaded up. Harry, put Hedwig in first…Good, now give me a hand with the trunks.” Harry lifted Hedwig’s cage into the train and then crouched on the lip of the door and helped his father lift his trunk and then Hermione’s aboard. Books were heavy things, after all.

He hopped down to hug his parents a final time before they set off.

Emma grabbed them both in a hug and struggled to avoid breaking down in tears, and she discreetly scratched Harry behind the ears. “Good luck up there, kids. We’ll miss you. We love you both.”

“We love you too!” Hermione exclaimed, being the less composed of the two. Harry whispered his agreement.

Dan was a little more restrained than his wife, though he wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders in turn. “Harry, do your best to find some real friends who aren’t just fans,” he said.

“I will.”

“And Hermione, just because you’re not at home doesn’t mean you can go crazy with the sweets.”

“Dad!”

“And both of you remember what Cousin Andi said. Lay low with the wandless magic—at least till you see how people react.” They nodded to him.

“Be sure to write us,” Emma added. “That goes double if there’s any funny business. And I’m sure the Tonkses will want to hear from you, too.”

“We will, Mum,” Hermione said. She and Harry climbed back on onto the train.

As they stood on the threshold, Dan recited, “This above all—to thine own self be true, and it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man. Farewell. My blessing season this in thee!”

“Most humbly do I take my leave, my lord,” Harry said with a laugh.

“Goodbye, Mum. Goodbye, Dad. We’ll see you at Christmas,” Hermione called. And they went into the train, rolling their trunks into the compartment and sliding them under their seats.

“Harry, look, I think it’s the Weasleys,” Hermione said as they settled in.

“Where?”

“There, behind you.”

Harry stood and turned around, looking out the window to see a family of redheads heading toward the train. He remembered what cousin Andi had said about the Weasleys:

“Arthur Weasley’s been a very valuable ally to me. Granted, he’s not much for speeches, and people always underestimate him because he’s only the head of Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, but he is a stalwart supporter of muggle rights, and he is brilliant at behind the scenes manoeuvring. I’ve been working with him on a Muggle Protection Act that I think we actually have a chance of getting passed by spring. His family’s really great, too, from what I hear. You can’t miss them. Just look for the biggest group of redheads.”

The Grangers all looked at each other. “Do they have a set of twins?” Hermione asked.

“Why, yes. Have you seen them?”

“Yes, in Flourish and Blotts. Their daughter was buying the newest Harry Potter book,” she said with a touch of annoyance.

“Well, that’s going to happen,” Andi admitted. “Half the little girls in the country read The Harry Potter Adventures. Even Dora read the first few.”

“Hey! Harry Potter on the Orient Express was pretty good,” Dora had protested, to the amusement of the others.

Soon the last students climbed on board, and the train began to move. Things had been quiet so far, but only a couple of minutes later, the compartment door opened, revealing three redheaded boys, including a pair of twins, standing outside.

“D’you guys mind?” the youngest one said. “All the others ones are full.”

“Go ahead,” Harry said politely.

“Well, look who it is,” one of the twins said.

“Who?” the younger boy asked.

“Harry Potter,” the other twin said.

Harry was still wearing his hair in bangs to try to cover his scar. He had even let it grow out over the past month, even though that made it all the more unmanageable. But none of that helped with a certain pair of twins who already knew what he looked like.

“What? Really?” The youngest redhead stumbled as he sat in the opposite corner from Harry.

Harry suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. “Yep, that’s me,” he said.

“How do you do, Mr. Potter?” the first twin said with somewhat exaggerated formality.

“I don’t believe we’ve been officially introduced,” the other added. “My name is George Weasley, and this is Fred.”

“And this is ickle Ronnie,” Fred said.

“It’s just Ron,” the other boy said quickly.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Harry replied. “I’ve heard a little about you, actually. My cousin, Andromeda Tonks, is working with your father on the Muggle Protection Act.”

The twins looked at each other in surprise.

“Oh, he’s heard of us, George.”

“Only good things, I hope, Fred.”

“Wait a minute, you just said you were George,” Hermione spoke up for the first time, pointing to the one who now appeared to be Fred.

“Of course not. That’s silly. I’m Gred,” he said.

“And I’m Forge,” said the other.

“And you would be…?” they said together.

“Oh, this is my sister, Hermione Granger,” Harry answered for her.

That response managed to shock even the infamous Weasley twins into silence, but Ron blurted out, “Sister? Harry Potter doesn’t have a sister.”

“He most certainly does,” Hermione said. “My parents adopted him when we were little.”

“A sister!” said Forge.

“Now that’s the best prank we’ve heard all summer,” Gred continued.

“It’s not a prank!” Harry protested.

“Oh, but it is.”

“You disappear for ten years and then show up with a sister—”

“That is genius!”

“It’s even better because it’s true.”

Harry and Hermione shared a nervous look. It was going to be an interesting year with these two around.

“So then you really were raised by muggles?” Ron said. “Boy, is Ginny gonna be disappointed.”

“Well, I was,” Harry answered. “I didn’t even know about magic or what happened to my birth parents till I was five.”

“What? Didn’t anyone tell you about…You-Know-Who?” His voice dropped to a whisper.

Harry shook his head. “No, I was raised by my muggle aunt and uncle at first, but they…didn’t really want me. When I was adopted, Professor Dumbledore came and told us about Voldemort.”

All three Weasleys gasped loudly, but then, incredibly, they saw both Harry and Hermione roll their eyes, at them, as if speaking the most feared name in magical Britain were completely unimportant. Hedwig hooted once from her cage in the other corner.

“You said his name!” Ron squeaked out.

“Well, sure, Dumbledore always says it.”

“But he’s Dumbledore. You of all people…”

“Honestly,” Hermione interrupted. “Fear of a name only increases the fear of the thing itself. I figured that out when I was six.”

The twins glanced at each other. “I think we may be out of our depth, George,” Fred—apparently—said.

“Indeed, Fred…” George answered. “Well, good luck, Ron,” he said with a grin. “We’re gonna go find Lee Jordan. He brought a giant tarantula.” Ron shuddered as they left the cabin.

Things were fairly quiet after that. Harry explained to Ron as much of his life story as he was comfortable revealing. Ron got a little confused the first few times Harry referred to his adoptive parents and Mum and Dad, but he was fine otherwise. Hermione excitedly talked about all the magic she wanted to learn at Hogwarts, which did put him off a little. Ron told them about all his brothers and his little sister, although he seemed a little bit cagey himself. Harry could understand, though—he knew the Weasleys weren’t exactly wealthy. It turned out Ron didn’t know much about his father’s Muggle Protection Act, although he said he thought it was a nice idea.

They spent part of the morning just watching the countryside pass by. Hermione had it in her head to try to figure out where Hogwarts was from the nearby landmarks, but Harry doubted that would work. Then, a clattering cart full of sweets rolled by at half past twelve, and a woman who bore more than a passing resemblance to Harry’s and Hermione’s Grandma called to them: “Honeydukes Express. Anything from the trolley, dears?”

“No thanks,” Ron muttered, his ears turning a little pink. “I’ve got sandwiches.”

“You go ahead, Hermione,” Harry said.

“You sure?” she asked. Harry nodded, and Hermione went out to look over the cart. “Oh, Harry,” she called back, “they have pumpkin pasties…and liquorice wands.”

“They do?” Harry jumped up to join his sister. Pumpkin and liquorice were among the few sweets that held any interest to his feline tastes. He grabbed some of each, while Hermione bought herself some cauldron cakes and what Harry considered an excessive quantity of chocolate frogs.

Meanwhile, Ron had unwrapped a lumpy parcel. He halfheartedly dissected a sandwich as the other two sat back down. “Aw, man,” he complained, “I keep telling Mum I don’t like corned beef.”

“Ooh, I love corned beef!” Harry said. “Trade you one?”

Ron stared at him. “Are you messing with me?”

“No,” Hermione said, shaking her head. “My brother’s not exactly normal.”

“Really, have a pastie,” he said.

“Okay…” Ron handed over a sandwich in exchange, which Harry eagerly bit into. While they were eating, a fat, grey rat lazily crawled out of Ron’s jacket and started nibbling on the edge of one of his sandwiches.

“Oi, Scabbers, geroff!” Ron wasn’t actually eating the sandwich, but he still picked it up and tore off a piece of the crust for the rat rather than let him keep nibbling at it. “Sorry, this is Scabbers. I got him from Percy “cause he got an owl for becoming a prefect,” he told the others with annoyance.

Scabbers glanced over at Harry and froze stiff, possibly because Harry had also locked eyes with him and looked ready to pounce. Neither one of them moved as an uneasy silence stretched.

“Uh, you okay, Harry?” Ron asked.

Harry shook himself out of it. “Huh? Oh, yeah, sorry. I’m just…more of a cat person.”

It was only because he’d been using that joke for years that Hermione didn’t laugh. Scabbers grabbed the crust of bread in his mouth and scampered back into Ron’s jacket.

“I thought you could only have owls, cats, or toads at Hogwarts,” Hermione said.

“Nah, they mean you can only have one of those three,” said Ron. “You can have smaller pets, though.”

They finished their lunch, with Ron eating all of the extra sweets that Harry and Hermione decided they didn’t want. The countryside out the window became hillier and more forested as the train rolled north. Surprisingly few people poked their heads in that afternoon to try to meet Harry, but there was one bigger group after a while. Ron was in the middle of a long monologue about Quidditch that only Harry was really interested in when the compartment door slid open, and three boys strutted in like they owned the place.

Two of the boys were thickset and seemed to have a permanent scowl. If they were first years, they were quite large for it and looked more like bodyguards than students standing beside the boy in the middle. That boy was pale and had bleach-blond hair and an air of superiority. Harry and Hermione recognised him at once. Cousin Andi had shown them a picture of her estranged family and pointed that boy out, offering one word of advice about him: “Avoid.”

“So, everybody’s saying that Harry Potter’s in this compartment,” the pale boy said, looking at Harry. “Is it you?”

“Yes,” Harry said, trying to decide whether to be more concerned with him or his two minions.

“Oh, these are Crabbe and Goyle,” the boy said lightly. “And my name’s Malfoy, Draco Malfoy.”

Now Harry was sorry he hadn’t tried to introduce himself as “Bond, James Bond.” Ron stiffled a snigger at the introduction, and Draco Malfoy looked ready to make some disparaging remark or other to him, but Harry cut him off. Drawing on the rules of etiquette that Cousin Andi had drilled into him, he stood up and responded, “Draco Malfoy, heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy?”

“You’ve heard of me?” Malfoy replied with a smug expression.

“Your family’s hard to miss, Mr. Malfoy, what with as many things as your father’s got named after him.”

Ron was shocked by the apparent praise, but Malfoy didn’t fail to notice the slight condescending tone in Harry’s voice. “My father is a well-respected philanthropist,” he said, turning up his nose ever so slightly. He shot another pointed look at Ron, and said, “You'll soon find out some wizarding families are much better than others, Mr. Potter. You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.” He offered a hand to Harry.

Harry clasped his own hands firmly in front of him. “That’s very generous of you, Mr. Malfoy,” he said serenely, “but I think my sister and I can already tell the wrong sort.”

“Sister?” Malfoy glanced in confusion at the only girl in the compartment.

“Adopted,” Harry and Hermione said in unison.

Malfoy eyed the two of them suspiciously, as if something had thrown off his calculations. “Well,” he said, “I guess we’ll find out soon enough, then.”

“I guess we will,” Harry replied.

“Come on, let’s go,” Malfoy said to Crabbe and Goyle.

Harry and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief as they left, while Ron looked amazed. “Blimey, Harry, how’d you do that?” he said. “I didn’t think anyone could make a Malfoy back down like that.”

“Cousin Andi taught us how to deal with people like him. You just have to know how to talk to them. Basically, just pretend you’re better than everybody else and then act really sarcastic about it.”

They all shared a laugh at that, and Ron did a surprisingly good impression of Malfoy’s voice: “Oh, yes, I’m Draco Malfoy, and my whole family’s been in Slytherin for over nine hundred years, hasn’t yours…?” They all laughed some more. “Merlin, why’d anybody actually want to be in Slytherin?”

“Merlin was in Slytherin,” Hermione observed.

“Well, maybe, but they’re all just a bunch of snakes, now. Never was a dark wizard or witch in Britain who wasn’t in Slytherin.”

“They’re not that bad!” Hermione protested. “Cousin Andi was in Slytherin, and she’s really nice.”

“Yeah, and Sirius Black was in Gryffindor, and he turned evil,” Harry added.

In Ron’s pocket, unnoticed even by the boy himself, Scabbers relaxed and went back to sleep.

“Well, I guess he was,” Ron admitted. “But still, my whole family’s been in Gryffindor. I’d hate to wind up in Slytherin—do know know what houses you want?”

“I think I’d like Gryffindor,” Harry said. “Both my birth parents went there.”

“I do think it sounds like the best one,” said Hermione, “but Ravenclaw wouldn’t be too bad. Do you know how they sort us though? Hogwarts, A History didn’t say.”

“No, sorry. They never tell the first years. Fred said we have to wrestle a troll, but I think he was joking.”

“Wrestle a troll!” yelled Hermione. “You don’t think—?”

“No, of course not,” said Harry. “Even Dumbledore’s not that crazy.”

They were deep into the mountains by now, and the daylight was starting to fade. Presently, though, they passed into a wide valley with some small, shimmering lochs in the distance.

“Harry—I think this is Glen More!” Hermione exclaimed. “We must be really far into the highlands.”

“Well, they did build Hogwarts far away from muggle towns,” Harry said.

“We’ll probably be arriving soon.” Hermione said firmly. She started digging into her trunk. “You two should change into your robes. I’ll go change in the loo.” She pulled her robes out and left the compartment.

Ron stared at Harry. “Is she always like that?”

Harry sniggered a little. “Yeah, mate. Better just do what she says.”

A few minutes later, the three of them were all changed. Hermione opened the compartment door again, only to jump back as she was nearly knocked over by her brother as he pounced at her.

“Whoa, watch out!” he said.

“Harry!”

But Harry stood up in front of her holding a large toad. “You nearly stepped on it,” he explained. Hermione grimaced a little as they went inside. Harry put the toad on the seat between him and Hedwig’s cage. The owl seemed to scoff at it.

A few minutes later, a nervous-looking, round-faced boy who had poked his head in earlier came back around, searching the floors of the compartments. Harry remembered him at once.

“Hey, mate, is this your toad?” he said.

“Trevor!” The round-faced boy dashed into the compartment and picked up the toad. “Thanks a lot, mate. My Gran woulda killed me if I lost him. Oh, I’m Neville, by the way. Neville Longbottom.”

Harry sprang to his feet. “Neville Longbottom, heir to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Longbottom?”

Neville stood up straighter, trying to appear properly noble, but he still looked pale and nervous. “Y-yes.”

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Harry Potter, and this is my sister, Hermione Granger.” He offered his hand to the boy.

Neville’s eyes widened, and he shook Harry’s hand vigorously. “L-Lord Potter. I am honoured to m-meet you,” he stammered.

“No titles outside the Ministry chambers, Neville. Just call me Harry,” the sometime-lord said with a chuckle.

“Wow, thanks, Ha-Ha-Harry.”

“No problem. Your Gran’s been a big help to my cousin, Madam Tonks.”

“Oh, r-right. Gran introduced me to her once.”

“Oh, and this is Ron Weasley,” Harry added. “I think he’s a cousin of yours—well, I guess we’re all cousins around here. Anyway, come on, have a seat,” Harry insisted. Neville sat down next to him, his head spinning, carefully holding his toad in his lap.

“So why’d you bring a toad, anyway?” Ron asked. “Mind, I got stuck with my brother’s rat, so I can’t talk.”

“My Great Uncle Algie gave him to me,” Neville explained. “Him and Gran are old fashioned about that kind of thing. I mean, he is useful for some things. Toads are magic-resistant, so they’re good for testing spells and potions on.”

“Really?” said Hermione. “I never knew that about toads. I knew cats could sense magic, and owls carry letters—”

“Yeah, I guess a lot of people had toads in my Gran’s day,” Neville said, shrugging his shoulders. “I’d rather have brought a cat, though.”

Harry had been pleased to learn that so many witches and wizards were cat lovers, even if it wouldn’t do him much good in practice. Neville certainly seemed to be a lot nicer than Draco Malfoy. Harry pondered how these two heirs of Most Ancient Houses were so different from each other…

“The Most Ancient Houses,” Andi had explained. The original founders of the Wizards’ Council. There were twelve of them originally, but there’s only six left, and even those are dying out. It might only be two in another century.”

“Well, if I may be so bold,” Dan had said. “If what you’ve told us about pureblood families is true, it sounds like inbreeding is catching up with them.”

“Oh, you’re not the only one who thinks so. That’s what Hippocrates Smethwyck’s been saying his entire life. I doubt it’s a coincidence that the Most Ancient Houses of Smethwyck and Monroe are still doing well when they’re the only ones that aren’t ‘pureblood’ anymore. Even Dumbledore will tell you the same if you press him on it, but most of the old families still care more about purity.”

“More than that, even,” Ted had told them. “It’s something of a tradition for Most Ancient Houses to have children at the same time, even when they don’t like each other much. In the old days, it made it easier to arrange marriages, but they still do it today. That’s why they have three children in your year.”

Of those three children, Harry could already tell Draco Malfoy was a smarmy git like the worst of the self-centred politicians Cousin Andi had to deal with. But Neville Longbottom, it seemed, was the exact opposite. He came from a powerful family, but he was badly lacking self-confidence. Harry was sure Neville had had learnt plenty more etiquette than he had, but he was tripping over himself in an actual conversation. He would need a lot of encouragement if he was ever going to hold his own against the likes of Malfoy, and with the political feud in which their families were locked, he would need it sooner rather than later.

It wasn’t much longer before the train slowed to a stop. Hermione declared that they were probably near the northwest corner of the Upper Highlands, but Harry suspected she was just guessing by this point. It had been too dark to see out for a while. People pushed their way out of the train onto a platform that was much smaller and more cramped than the one in Kings Cross. A fair number of people were already there—students whose families lived in Hogsmeade and who almost never took the train except for the first years in the traditional ritual of getting to know each other. The older students all seemed to be heading off in one direction, toward where Harry could just make out some black horseless carriages, but the first years were hearkened to a deep, booming voice and a lantern that bobbed high above their heads.

“Firs’ years! All the firs’ years over here, now!” Hermione grabbed Harry’s hand to try to stay together and ran up to the front of the line, but they both stopped and looked up in awe at the holder of the lantern: a giant man whose face was almost hidden in a massive, shaggy mane of black hair and a great big, bushy beard. He looked down and spotted Harry at once.

“Harry!” the huge man said. “Harry Potter! Las’ time I saw you you was just a baby. Great ter see you again. Look just like just yer dad, yeh do, but you’ve got yer mum’s eyes.”

Was everyone who knew his parents going to say that? “Nice to meet you, Mister…”

“Oh, sorry.” He drew himself up, and his voice boomed out over the crowd. “My name’s Rubeus Hagrid—yeh can jus’ call me Hagrid. I’m Keeper of Keys and Grounds here at Hogwarts. I’ll be taking yeh up ter the castle. Firs’ years follow me. Mind yer step, now…”

Hagrid led them up a winding path through the trees, chatting with Harry as they walked. “Well, Dumbledore asked me to take yeh from yer parents’ house to yer relatives after…well, after that night,” he said. “Was sorry to hear they treated yeh mean, I was. If I’da known…” A dark look crossed his face.

“It’s alright,” Harry said after an awkward pause. “It worked out pretty well in the end.”

Hagrid smiled down at him through his tangled beard. “Yeah, that it did, I see. Right lucky of yeh ter get a sister outta the deal.” He looked over at Hermione. “Granger, isn’t it, Miss?”

“Yes, sir, Hermione Granger,” she replied. “Pleased to meet you.”

“Alright, just around this bend, now,” Hagrid called. Even Harry and Hermione gasped when they saw Hogwarts Castle for the first time. They had seen some muggle castles, and they didn’t hold a candle to it. It was vast, towering, and sprawling over the high mountain on which it sat overlooking a lake, and its many towers gleamed with firelight against the starry sky.

They all loaded into boats to cross the lake. Harry, Hermione, Ron, and Neville got a boat together, right behind Hagrid’s. As they crossed they could feel the wards of the castle approaching, a virtual wall of magic, ancient and singing with power. Most of the first years didn’t notice until it was right on top of them, but Harry and Hermione could feel it coming almost from the shore. When they reached the middle of the lake, they closed their eyes and let the wards wash over them like waves. They were immensely more powerful than the ones on their house—so powerful that they felt refreshing and energising to the touch—and richly layered with centuries of renewal and improvement. Not just the two of them, but all the first-years felt awakened and lively when they passed through, even after the long day.

“Wow…” Harry and Hermione said with a contented sigh, both smiling like they’d been hit with Cheering Charms.

“Whoa, what was that?” someone nearby called. Similar words echoed from the other boats.

“Those were the castle wards,” said Hermione. “I had no idea they were that powerful.”

“That’s righ,’” Hagrid called. “No safer place than Hogwarts. Not one. Pro’ly not even Gringotts after what happened this summer.”

It turned out that they needed that energy boost, too. After they rode the boats into an underground harbour, they climbed a long passageway that left the children huffing and puffing by the time it let out onto the grass in front of the castle.

“Everyone here? Good,” Hagrid said when they arrived. He walked up to a great pair of oaken doors and pounded on them three times with his gigantic fist.

The great doors of Hogwarts Castle opened to reveal the familiar face of Professor McGonagall, albeit with a sterner expression than Harry and Hermione were used to seeing from her. She lined up the first years and briefly explained the Sorting Ceremony and the House Points System. A few people screamed as the Hogwarts ghosts made an appearance, mostly the other muggle-borns, who hadn’t been warned about them, but soon enough, McGonagall led them through another set of double doors into the Great Hall.

The Great Hall was as awe-inspiring as their first look at the castle from outside. Four long tables stretched all the way from the doors to the High Table, where the rest of the professors were sitting, and thousands upon thousands of candles floated overhead, reaching up to the ceiling, which projected the velvety black of the night sky. Yet this beautiful sight was also a deeply sobering one, all the more so as the hundreds of faces in the Great Hall watched the first years enter in profound silence.

For more than a third of the length of those long tables was empty.

There was no sound but footsteps as the first years passed seat after seat on the wooden benches that stood empty in front of bare tables with no golden plates and goblets laid out. This absence, as Harry and Hermione and many of the others knew, was a consequence of the war—not the children who were lost, though there were some, but mostly the ones who were never born.

“You have no idea how bad it was in those last few years,” Cousin Ted had explained. “People were dying left and right, the bad guys were winning, you had no idea who you could trust—it was a horrible world to bring a child into. By 1979, the birth rate in magical Britain had fallen by half—the same thing happened in muggle France in World War I, for some perspective. The average year in Hogwarts is about eighty students, but yours will be the smallest class in centuries. If I’ve read the numbers right, there’ll only be forty in your year.”

This was the clearest sign Harry had yet seen of the damage the war had caused. The hellish years leading up to All Hallows’ Eve of 1981 had cut a wound in this country deeper than any scar or blasted-out cottage. It was here, touching the very heart of this joyous occasion, and everywhere else there were seats still standing empty, even a decade after the war—haunted by the unborn who were perhaps as numerous as the dead. For the first time in his life, he began to truly understand why the wizarding world was so eager to embrace him as a saviour, and why Voldemort’s name was still so feared.

The thought terrified him. He was only eleven. What kind of a saviour was he?

Harry looked over at his sister and could tell from her frown that she was rapidly reaching the same conclusions. He had a feeling that Justin, who was in front of him, and the other muggle-borns were also putting the pieces together, but the rest, who already knew about all of this, didn’t seem to think much of it.

They passed the more numerous older students and then quickly passed the younger ones. Near the front of the Hall, there were a number of empty seats for the new students to sit once they were sorted. Harry could feel all the eyes on him, trying to get a glimpse of the Boy-Who-Lived.

They reached the front of the Hall, and Professor McGonagall brought forth a stool on which she placed a tattered old hat.

A singing hat.

In Harry’s opinion, a badly singing hat.

A badly singing hat that read your mind and decided which house your personality was best suited for. Harry and Hermione exchanged a look and silently agreed that this was exactly the kind of thing that wizards would come up with.

Professor McGonagall now stepped forward holding a long roll of parchment.

“When I call your name, you will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted,” she said. “Abbott, Hannah!”

A pink faced girl with blond pigtails stumbled out of line, put on the hat, which fell right down over her eyes, and sat down. A moment's pause—

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat.

The second table from the right cheered and clapped as Hannah went to sit down at the Hufflepuff table. Harry saw the ghost of the Fat Friar waving merrily at her.

“Bones, Susan!”

“HUFFLEPUFF!” shouted the hat again, and Susan scuttled off to sit next to Hannah.

“Boot, Terry!”

“RAVENCLAW!”

Harry and Hermione applauded as the first muggle-born in the group took his seat at the second table from the left.

“Brocklehurst, Amanda!” McGonagall called.

A girl with blond hair in a ponytail stepped forward and put the hat on her head. She was the great-granddaughter of Lord Ethelred Brocklehurst, the number one patron of the Diagonal Theatre, Harry remembered. Amanda Brocklehurst followed Terry to Ravenclaw.

“Brown, Lavender” became the first new Gryffindor, and the table on the far left exploded with cheers; Harry could see Ron’s twin brothers catcalling.

“Bulstrode, Millicent” then became a Slytherin, eliciting equally loud, competitive-sounding cheers from the table at the far right.

Malfoy’s lackey, Crabbe, Harry and Hermione noted, was very quickly sorted into Slytherin, while the hat spent quite a bit longer on some of the other students. Soon after, the next muggle-born, Kevin, went to Ravenclaw, while Justin was sorted into Hufflepuff. Malfoy’s other bodyguard, Goyle, was another easy sort for Slytherin, and then…

“Granger, Hermione!”

Hermione darted forward eagerly. She didn’t notice, though her brother did, the intense stares that were directed at her and the whispers that filled the Hall: “I heard she’s Potter’s sister.” “He doesn’t have a sister.” “She’s adopted.” “No, he’s adopted.” “Wonder where she’ll go.”

She pulled the Sorting Hat down over her eyes, not quite knowing what to expect, but she gave a start when she heard a small voice speak in her ear: “Hmm, difficult. A mind that would excel even in Ravenclaw, and a talent for wandless magic, even—that’s rare—and yet enough Gryffindor courage to adopt a brother who was hunted by dark wizards. You would do well in either house…”

I’m sure Harry will be in Gryffindor, she thought. I’d rather go there.

“Oh, we’ll see about him in a moment,” the hat said knowingly, “but if you’re sure, better be…GRYFFINDOR!”

Hermione was applauded more loudly than anyone else so far as she stepped down with a broad smile to take her seat at the Gryffindor table. Harry waved to her in congratulations, a gesture than was not lost on those watching. A red-haired prefect who turned out to be the other Weasley brother shook Hermione’s hand enthusiastically when she reached the table.

“Greengrass, Daphne!”

A girl with long, flowing hair as bleach-blond as Malfoy’s walked forward with a stately posture: the other scion of a Most Ancient House in their year. Harry leaned over and nudged Ron. “Watch this one,” he whispered. “Her grandfather’s the leader of the moderates on the Wizengamot.”

Harry was dismayed, though, when the hat didn’t need very long to sort her into Slytherin. He was hoping she would be the more tractable sort, but the circle of people around her would not make it easy now.

When Neville Longbottom was called, he fell over on his way to the stool. The hat took a long time to decide with Neville. When it finally shouted, “GRYFFINDOR,” Neville ran off still wearing it, and had to jog back amid gales of laughter to give it to “MacDougal, Morag.”

Malfoy swaggered forward when his name was called and got his wish at once: the hat had barely touched his head when it screamed, “SLYTHERIN!”

After him, Lily Moon was sorted into Gryffindor, and Theodore Nott also went to Slytherin. “Watch out for him,” Harry whispered to Ron. “His father’s a suspected Death Eater.” Ron nodded his agreement.

But just a few names after that, it was Harry’s own turn. When Professor McGonagall called his name, the whispers returned with a vengeance: “The Harry Potter?” “Three sickles on Gryffindor.” “It’s really him!” “Did you see the scar?”

Harry locked eyes with Hermione to avoid all the other stares as he sat and dropped the hat onto his head so that it covered his eyes. He waited.

“How interesting,” the hat whispered in his ear. “An animagus at your age.”

Harry’s heart leapt into his throat. You can’t—!

“Oh, no, I won’t tell anyone, don’t worry. But it’s a very rare skill. I’ve only seen it twice before in all my centuries.”

You ’ve seen it before! Who? How?

“I cannot tell you. I must respect all students’ privacy, even after their deaths, though the clues may still be out there for you to find. Ah, but where to put you? Plenty of courage, I see, and not a bad mind either. There’s talent and cunning, oh yes—but not quite the temperament for Slytherin. Perhaps if things had gone differently—oh, but you could still be great in Ravenclaw, you know.”

Are you kidding? thought Harry. Me in Ravenclaw and Hermione in Gryffindor? I’d never hear the end of it.

He was sure the hat was laughing at him. “Well, then, as amusing as that would be, we’ll go with GRYFFINDOR!”

There was a sound of thunder. All of Gryffindor House rose to its feet as one in wild cheering. A few scattered students rose at the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables, and it quickly turned it into a standing ovation from three houses. The Slytherins, he saw, sat and applauded politely. Fred and George Weasley shouted over the din, “We got Potter! We got Potter!”

The Hall didn’t calm down until Albus Dumbledore stood from his golden chair at the High Table and raised his hands, still smiling, his silver hair shining in the candlelight. The Great Hall was silent again in seconds, and he sat down again without a word to allow the sorting to complete. Harry was both impressed and relieved to see that the old man had an even greater influence in the Hall than he did.

Harry fought his way through the line of admirers wanting to shake his hand as Professor McGonagall called the next name. He took the open seat next to Hermione. His sister hugged him and whispered “Congratulations, Harry.”

“You too, Hermione,” he whispered back.

Sally and Zacharias Smith both went to Hufflepuff. They were from different families, Harry remembered, which was sure to cause some confusion. Zacharias was from the Noble House of Smith, the first and largest of the families descended from Helga Hufflepuff, while Sally, it was believed, traced her family to a muggle-born Smith a few generations back. Soon after them, the Sorting wrapped up with a very relieved looking Ron Weasley joining Harry and Hermione at the Gryffindor table and Blaise Zabini going to Slytherin.

No sooner had Ron got past his brothers and sat down on the other side of Harry then Albus Dumbledore again rose to his feet, looking positively joyful.

“Welcome,” he said. “Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you!”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a nervous glance while everyone else cheered. Hermione turned to Percy the prefect and said, “Um, is he alright? That was strange, even for him.”

“Oh, he’s always been a bit mad,” Percy said nonchalantly. “But he is a genius.”

Harry and Hermione felt a soft wave of magic unlike any they had felt before as the tables in front of them magically filled with food, delivered up by the house elves from directly below them in the kitchen. Cousin Andi had explained to them about house elves. All the Grangers had been quite unhappy to learn about the existence of an actual slave caste in the magical world (not to mention the fact that their existence was barely acknowledged in the history books), but Andi had convinced them, with difficulty, that this was one aspect of the status quo that would not be productive to fight.

“The records are sketchy, but it’s believed that house elves were bred in Germany from wild elves starting under Clovis I. The wild elves were more intelligent and docile relatives of the erkling, but they died out in the 1600s. I know it sounds awful today—believe me, it was questioned even in the Founders’ time—but they really are bred for service. Given the choice, they almost always prefer it to freedom, so long as they’re treated well. I’ve never had one since I left home, nor did the Potters, as far as I know, but trying to push that stance widely would not be the best way to help them.”

“Awesome!” Harry exclaimed, far more focused on the food than on where it came from. He couldn’t remember ever seeing so many kinds of meat on one table before: roast beef and steak, pork chops, bacon, and sausage, roast chicken, and lamb chops. He started loading up on everything.

“Oh, boy, now they’ve got him going,” Hermione groaned. Everyone was tucking in, but the only person who looked more enthusiastic than Harry was Ron, though the redhead was a good deal less discriminating. “You should get some vegetables, Harry,” she told him without thinking, prompting snickers from those sitting around them as she spooned some peas, carrots, and potatoes onto each of their plates. Their parents had recruited Hermione to their cause of getting Harry to eat normal human fare almost from day one. She supposed she should be glad he was at least using the tableware and hadn’t grabbed a lamb chop by the rib and bit right in.

Harry took a swig from his goblet, and his eyes lit up. “Hermione, it’s pumpkin juice!”

“Pumpkin juice?” she said sceptically. She cautiously took a sip herself. It was pumpkin juice alright—two things that shouldn’t go together in her opinion, though she supposed she could get used to it. Of course, her brother loved it. Thankfully he toned things down after his over-excited start.

“You know, that hat tried to put me in Ravenclaw,” Harry told her when he had calmed down a bit.

“It did?” Hermione squeaked slightly.

“Yeah, but I told it it’d be ridiculous for me to be in Ravenclaw while you were in Gryffindor.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Harry, I only asked it for Gryffindor because I thought you’d wind up here.”

“What, so you mean we both could have been in Ravenclaw?” Harry said, laughing.

“I—I guess so—but I still think Gryffindor is the best,” she said. “I like Professor McGonagall. And Dumbledore may be a little…barmy, but he’s still pretty smart.” Harry had to agree with that.

The rest of dinner went well, except for when “Nearly-Headless Nick” flipping his head off in front of the first years and put them all off their appetites for a few minutes. Hermione briefly wondered how the ghost could control his body with his spinal cord severed, but quickly dismissed this as a ridiculous question. Obviously, the magic of spirits didn’t require such things. Although…

“Excuse me…Sir Nicholas?” she asked.

“Yes, my dear?” the ghost said, obviously pleased to have someone call him by his proper name.

“If you don’t mind my asking, sir, how can you speak if you’re intangible?”

“What?” Sir Nicholas said in confusion.

“Well, it’s just that you have to have some kind of physical influence on the world around in order to vibrate the air to make sounds.”

She became aware that everyone was staring at her, including Sir Nicholas, who looked thoughtful, as if no one had ever thought to ask him that in the past five centuries.

“Well, I suppose I must,” he said tentatively. “Though I’ve never felt it. Myrtle is the only ghost in the castle who’s had any success at haunting things.”

“Who’s Myrtle?” Hermione asked. She was sure there was no ghost by that name mentioned in Hogwarts, A History.

“Oh, she haunts the second floor girls’ loo,” Percy said quickly, “but she’s not much for conversation.”

No one had a satisfactory explanation for why a ghost should haunt a bathroom, so Hermione let the matter drop. She talked to Percy about lessons, and she and Harry had to explain more than once how they had come to be siblings, but by the time dessert came around, they started to learn about other people’s families.

“I’m half-and-half,” said Seamus. “Me dad’s a Muggle. Mum didn’t tell him she was a witch ’til after they were married. Bit of a nasty shock for him.”

The others laughed.

“That doesn’t sound very nice,” Hermione protested.

Seamus looked a little annoyed at her, but he explained, “Well, it’s the Statute of Secrecy—yeh have to do it that way.” The purebloods at the table nodded like it was perfectly reasonable.

“What about you, Neville?” said Ron.

“Well, my Gran brought me up and she’s a witch,” said Neville, “but the family thought I was a squib for ages. My Great Uncle Algie kept trying to catch me off my guard and force some magic out of me—he pushed me off the end of Blackpool pier once, I nearly drowned—but nothing happened until I was eight. Great Uncle Algie came round for dinner, and he was hanging me out of an upstairs window by the ankles when my Great Auntie Enid offered him a meringue and he accidentally let go. But I bounced—all the way down the garden and into the road. They were all really pleased, Gran was crying, she was so happy. And you should have seen their faces when I got in here—they thought I might not be magic enough to come, you see. Great Uncle Algie was so pleased he bought me my toad.”

The round-faced boy’s story elicited some laughter, but he became nervous when several people looked appropriately appalled by it, especially the muggle-raised ones.

“What…?”

“Neville…” Harry tried to broach it tactfully. “Your family was more happy that you could do magic than that you weren’t hurt getting dropped out an upstairs window?” And your grandmother is supposed to be the head of the liberals on the Wizengamot? he mentally added.

“Well, um…” Neville stammered nervously. “It’s not about that so much, but it’s just that…with my parents…” He stopped and swallowed hard. “I—I m-might as well be the last of the Longbottoms, see? If I weren’t magical, the line would die out.”

“Ugh, do they really…?” Hermione started, then stopped, trying not to offend the boy. It sounded like the politics of the old royal families of Europe. Neville shrugged his shoulders apologetically.

Dessert was soon winding down, and Harry surveyed the High Table, wondering when how they would be dismissed. He didn’t know most of the professors by sight, although the tiny Professor Flitwick was easy to spot from Cousin Dora’s description, as was the bored, sleepy-looking Professor Binns, the only one at the table who was see-through. Presently, though, his eyes ran over a pair of teachers he hadn’t paid much attention before—one with long, black, greasy hair and a hooked nose who was listening to the mutterings of a pale young man in a purple turban.

It happened very suddenly. The hook nosed teacher looked past the turban straight into Harry ’s eyes—and a sharp, hot pain shot across the scar on Harry’s forehead.

“Ouch!” Harry suddenly clapped his hand to his forehead, just above his right eye.

“Harry? What is it?” Hermione said.

“N-nothing.”

She wasn’t buying it. Seeing him glance around at the others at the table, she leaned in to whisper to him. “Harry, that wasn’t nothing,” she said.

“No, really, it’s gone now,” he whispered back.

“It still wasn’t normal. Has that ever happened before?” She doubted it had. She’d never seen Harry slap his hand to his scar like that in the six years she’d known him, and scars weren’t supposed to be painful—not old ones, anyway. When Harry seemed reluctant to answer, she asked, “What happened—what were you doing?”

“Nothing. I was just looking at those two.” He pointed up at the High Table.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as she appraised the two teachers he was indicating. “Percy, who are those two on the end, there?” she asked.

“Oh, that’s Professor Quirrell in the turban—he teaches Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Percy explained formally. “And that’s Professor Snape in the black. He teaches Potions, but everyone knows he wants Quirrell’s job.”

Well, that was suspicious, indeed. “Harry, which one of them—”

“I don’t know. It was probably just a coincidence,” he protested.

“I think we should tell someone.”

“Mione, I’m fine, really—look, if it happens again, I’ll ask the nurse, okay?”

Hermione grumbled and let it go, but she resolved to keep an eye on both Snape and Quirrell when Harry was around them. Neither one sounded like someone to get too close to, from what they had heard—especially Snape.

“Snape was Dumbledore’s spy during the war,” Andi told them. “It’s not something they like to advertise, but it’s public record. He’s an admitted Death Eater who switched sides near the end, and Dumbledore vouched for him personally to keep him out of Azkaban. The thing is, Snape remains a close personal friend of the Malfoy Family and is notorious for showing favouritism to Slytherin students, especially children of suspected Death Eaters.”

“Yeah, that’s putting it mildly,” Dora had said. “He’s a greasy git who’ll take points just for looking at him funny, and Merlin help you if you get on his bad side. I saw him actually sabotage people’s potions, but no one could prove it after.”

“My daughter may be a bit…overzealous in her characterisation,” Andi had cut in, “but, unfortunately, I know at least some of it’s true. People file complaints against him every year, but it seems like the only thing Albus Dumbledore and Lucius Malfoy can agree upon is that they both want Snape teaching potions.

“You need to be especially careful around him, Harry. He was in school at the same time as your parents, and I’ve heard he and your father got on pretty badly.”

Yes, if someone had a motive to hold a grudge against Harry Potter, Hermione decided, it was probably Professor Snape.

Harry himself, on the other hand, though he would rather have just forgotten about the whole thing, had a different concern on his mind.

“Oh, and the Defence Professor,” Dora said. “Be really careful around him, whoever it is.”

“Why?” said Harry.

“The Defence Professorship is cursed,” Andi said.

“Cursed?”

“Yeah, or at least everyone thinks it is,” Dora answered.

“It was even when we went there,” Andi added. “No Defence professor has taught for more than one year since 1958.”

“They say You-Know—” Dora started, but her mother shot her a look. “—I mean Voldemort did it because Dumbledore turned him down for the job. Ever since, something bad always happens with the Defence Professor every year. There’s been ones who got sacked for teaching blatant lies, accidentally injuring students, deliberately injuring students—”

“Dora,” her mother warned.

“Sleeping with students—”

“Dora!”

“What? It’s true!”

Andi opened her mouth to speak, but Dora tacked on, “Both genders.”

“It’s Professor Quirrell this term,” Andi huffed. “He taught Muggle Studies for years. He won’t be doing anything like that.” She turned back to the Grangers. “The bigger worry is the ones who meet with an unfortunate accident—lost a limb to a carnivorous plant, mauled by a kelpie, caught in an explosion that also injured several students…”

“We had one just fall out his office window,” Dora added helpfully. “And the worst part is most of them are no good at it “cause no one who is is crazy enough to take the job.”

“The point is,” Andi said in annoyance, “the Defence Professor’s bad luck, no matter who it is. From what I hear, Quirrell’s very nice, but be very alert if he does anything potentially dangerous. It might not be his fault, but it could still backfire horribly.”

Harry hadn’t been sure before, but right now, that seemed like very good advice.

Eventually, the desserts disappeared, and Dumbledore stood up to make his start of term announcements, which all sounded quite reasonable except for the “very painful death” awaiting anyone who dared to intrude on the right-hand corridor on the third floor. And then the Headmaster proved his madness again by having the school sing a song with no melody before sending everyone off to bed.

“Percy?” Hermione said, pulling Harry up to the front of the line to the dorms. “Dumbledore wasn’t serious about the third floor, was he?” Knowing Dumbledore, she thought he probably was, but she still felt she had to check.

“He must be,” Percy replied. “Dumbledore may be a little off his rocker, but he never pulls pranks. It is odd, though. You’d think he’d at least tell us prefects why.”

“But why would he tell us like that at all? I bet it won’t be twenty-four hours before someone goes up there.”

“Oh, don’t worry, Miss Granger,” he said. “We prefects will keep everyone in line.”

They made it up to Gryffindor Tower, and Percy pointed them up to their bedrooms, which Harry thought was now an excellent place to go. He wasn’t used to eating that much or that late. “Well, I’m beat,” he said. “Good night, Hermione.”

He could tell from the look on his sister’s face that she was still concerned about him, but he was glad when she didn’t mention it. Stifling a yawn, she said, “Good night, Harry,” and headed up the girl’s staircase.

Harry was annoyed to find he had to climb another seven floors to get to his room. He hoped he could get to bed quickly, but his new roommates looked like they had plenty of questions. He started unpacking his trunk with what he would need for the night.

“What the—!” he exclaimed, dropping something to the floor with a clatter.

“What is it?” said Ron Weasley. The other boys crowded round to see.

Harry picked up his picture frame off the floor, the one containing the photograph of the Potters on his first birthday.

It was moving.

James and Lily Potter were smiling and waving at him from the picture frame, while baby Harry wriggled in their arms. They didn’t speak, and their behaviour seemed to repeat—or nearly repeat—after ten seconds or so, but it was incredible seeing them in motion. “How is it doing that?” he wondered.

“What do you mean?” Ron said. “They all do that.”

“No, I’ve had this on my nightstand for six years, and it’s never moved before,” Harry replied.

“Well, that’s weird. Where’d you get it from?”

“From Dumbledore—oh, he must’ve frozen it so it didn’t move in a muggle house.”

“Well, that Dumbledore is pretty smart.”

“Yeah,” Harry said equivocally, and mentally added, most of the time.

One of the few people who didn’t go straight to bed that night was Draco Malfoy. He got out his parchment and quill so that he could post a letter home the first thing in the morning and inform his parents of some unexpected developments.

Dear Father and Mother,

I have, of course, been sorted into Slytherin, as have Nott and Greengrass, though Greengrass has been keeping her distance from most of us except for her friend, Tracey Davis.

I approached Harry Potter on the train, as you requested. Predictably, he rejected my offer, but he was more polite than I expected about it, and he knew who I was, at least by name. He had already met the Weasleys by the time I found him, and there are rumours that he was palling around with Longbottom, too.

However, you ’ve probably heard or will soon hear that Potter showed up with an adoptive sister. His sister’s name is Granger, and I’m almost positive she’s muggle-born. The rumours say Potter himself was raised by muggles, but he’s clearly had some kind of training, too, and I bet it was from Aunt Andromeda. How else would he know who his allies are so fast? Unfortunately, it looks like the chance to turn Potter to a more favourable attitude has passed. With muggle connections, his support of Auntie’s Muggle Rights Act is already assured.

Potter and his sister both went to Gryffindor, although the Hat didn ’t decide right away for either of them. Longbottom went there too, though I don’t know why when he was such an obvious Hufflepuff.

Your loving son,

Draco

Harry and Hermione woke tired the next morning. Both of their roommates had kept them up late with questions, although Ron Weasley hadn’t been too bad after already having spent the whole day on the train with them. It wasn’t the best way to start the school year, but they had slept quite well in what time they had. There was something about being surrounded by the magic of the castle that felt warm and comforting—almost like being home after a long holiday.

They met up in the Common Room to go down to breakfast together, relying on strength in numbers. This proved to be wise, since they already had to politely parry away some overeager admirers in the Common Room who hadn’t got a chance to meet Harry the previous night. Then, as they walked through the corridors, they were sure they saw some of the passing faces twice, or even three times, doubling back to get another look. They allowed Ron and Neville Longbottom to walk close by them, though, since those two were somewhat less starstruck than everyone else.

One of the more impressive sights at Hogwarts was the morning post delivery, when well over a hundred owls came winging their way into the Great Hall dropping off letters and parcels to the students. Hedwig flew down and dropped off a copy of The Daily Prophet, and Hermione fed her some bacon.

“Huh,” Harry said, looking over the paper. “We’re not all over the front page.”

“Hmm, the Sorting was pretty late. I guess not even magic could help Rita Skeeter get a story to press that fast,” Hermione mused. “But I’m sure we’ll be in there tomorrow—or at least you will.”

“Oh, you’ll be in, too, Mione. Remember how Cousin Andi said everyone would go nuts over the “Boy-Who-Lived Raised by Muggles!” story?”

She remembered. The timing was certainly unfortunate. The sharks would be circling from all sides to tie the story to their position on the Muggle Protection Act. It was tempting to think one heartfelt speech from Harry Potter would be enough to put it over the top, but then there would also be those who lamented that the Saviour of the Wizarding World didn’t even grow up in their world and all sorts of things like that.

“Well, at least we have one day to just worry about classes,” Hermione said.

“Excuse me, Mr. Potter.”

They both turned to see a smug-looking blond boy with an upturned nose—one in yellow trimmed robes.

“Allow me to introduce myself,” the boy said. “My name is Zacharias Smith.”

Harry rose to his feet and forced a smile. “Ah, that would be Zacharias Smith, scion of the Noble House of Smith?” he asked.

“And direct descendant of Lady Helga Hufflepuff,” Smith added. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Potter.” He grabbed Harry’s hand and squeezed it tightly.

“Likewise. My sister, Hermione Granger.” Harry motioned to her.

“Miss Granger.” Smith shook her hand, too, which she returned limply. “Sometime, Mr. Potter I would like to hear the story of how and why you managed to slip the watch of all of magical Britain to live out in the muggle world,” he continued.

And what’s wrong with the muggle world? “Well, that was mostly Dumbledore’s doing,” Harry said.

Harry and Hermione were relieved when Percy Weasley came around, saying, “First years, I have your timetables here—You’ll need to be getting yours, too, Mr. Smith.”

“Of course. I’ll see you in class, Mr. Potter,” he said with a smile before walking off.

Harry suspected that the Hufflepuff blood was the only thing that had landed the arrogant boy in his ancestor’s house. And he wasn’t exactly highly-ranked, either. After all, he was what, tenth in line for the Smith Seat? But he did seem to know the etiquette, so that would probably count for something.

After the timetables were passed out, all the students left breakfast early to go back to their dorms for their books. Harry and Hermione dashed up the fourteen flights to their rooms, surprising a number of other students, who weren’t in such good shape from years of karate, by passing them in the other direction on the way down.

Led mostly by Hermione’s eagerness, they were the first ones to make it to their first class, Transfiguration. That was lucky of them, as they later learnt firsthand how uncooperative the castle’s moving stairs and trick doors could be. And the Transfiguration classroom was, indeed, empty, save for a grey tabby cat with black rectangles around its eyes sitting on the teacher’s desk.

“Good morning, Professor,” Harry said with a smile.

The cat meowed at him.

“Are you planning on surprising the class?” he continued.

The cat caterwauled briefly.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

The cat repeated the message with a slightly harsher tone.

“Oh, of course.” He turned to Hermione. “She said it’s a good way to spot troublemakers—like me,” he said with a chuckle.

They heard the sound of footsteps outside, and the cat twitched an ear toward the door and then hissed at Harry.

“Alright, we’re sitting down, Professor,” he said.

They took the two seats in the front corner as the other students started filing in, a few of them looking curiously at the cat. Hermione leaned toward him and whispered, “I still don’t get how you can do that.”

“Just practice,” Harry said smugly. Of course, the truth was that he probably could never have learnt to interpret meows without doing it with a cat’s sense of hearing first. Human ears were just barely up to the task. But it was always good to find something he was better at than his sister.

The classroom, like the Great Hall, stood half-empty, making it hard to tell if everyone had arrived. It seemed like a bleak way to go through school for seven years, but that was the way of things. The final bell rang, but no one did anything until nearly a minute later, when Ron Weasley ran into the classroom, looking around nervously.

“Oh good, Professor McGonagall’s not here yet,” he said with relief.

Harry caught the cat’s eye and turned to Ron. “Uh, sorry, mate,” he said, pointing to it.

With that, the grey tabby leapt off the desk and in a blink was replaced by the tall, stern form of Minerva McGonagall. The rest of the class gasped and applauded, while Ron let out an astonished “Wicked!”

“Thank you for that assessment, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall said. “Do please take your seat, and try to be on time in the future.”

Harry and Hermione were eager to get started on transfiguration, since the wandless magic they had learnt was pretty much all charms, but the class was less hands-on than they had hoped. Professor McGonagall made them take a lot of complicated notes before handing out matchsticks to turn into needles. By the end of the lesson, though, Harry had managed to turn his matchstick silver and pointy. It wasn’t easy to feel for his magic and shape it through his wand in such a different way than he was used to, but he was still well ahead of almost everyone else in the class. Predictably, Hermione had him beat: she’d nearly completed the transformation to a needle, producing a piece of metal the right size and shape and only failing to make the eye. McGonagall smiled as she showed their work to the class and award the pair five points to Gryffindor.

But it was the second class of the day, a double Defence Against the Dark Arts period, that they were most looking forward to. After five years of karate, both of them, though especially Harry, were ready to start learning magical self-defence.

It was nothing like they had expected.

The Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs sat down scattered around the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. This was one of the larger classrooms, with the teacher’s desk sitting in the back and a large open space in the front, presumably for practical demonstrations. A muggle archery target stood against the far wall.

Professor Quirrell was a pale, quiet young man with sharp, penetrating blue eyes. He wore close-fitting robes that still admitted quite a bit of movement, and a purple turban, the tail of which was draped around his shoulders. As soon as the bell rang, he rose from his seat and walked in silence to the head of the class. He stood straight, but stiff. Most of the class thought he was understandably nervous about starting his first day as the Defence Professor.

“Welcome,” he said in a soft voice that, surprisingly, sounded more confident than he looked. “Welcome to your first Defence Against the Dark Arts class. I am Quirinus Quirrell, formerly professor of Muggle Studies. For the past year I have travelled the world to gain practical experience for my new posting. You will no doubt be wondering what horrible fate will befall me this year. However, as I am on a one-year contract, you may rest assured that I am keeping my options open.” A few people giggled.

“I’ll just take attendance before we get started…” He called the role from a small scroll that he drew from his pocket. He stuttered when he came to Harry’s name, and an almost frightened look flickered across his face for a moment, but he kept on going as if nothing had happened and put the scroll away.

“The world,” Professor Quirrell said dramatically in that soft voice of his, “both magical and mundane, is a dangerous place. The Dark Arts are first and foremost among these dangers. Most of you will already know this well.” His eyes passed across Harry’s. “The fact that classroom after classroom of this school stands half-empty shows that clearly. The fact that the Ministry is still reeling, that the Auror department is still short-staffed after ten years, the fact that this nation is littered from one end to the other with widows and orphans, with broken families, and with the gravestones of ones that were wiped out entirely is testament to the danger of the Dark Arts.”

A Hufflepuff girl with a round face and auburn hair whimpered softly. Neville Longbottom was shaking. Harry glared openly at Professor Quirrell and started contemplating whether he could use his influence to get him sacked right away.

“However,” and this one word was the first time Quirrell had raised his voice in his entire speech, “we are currently in peacetime.” He let the words hang in the air, and the tension seemed to lessen. He started up again, and the harshness his voice had taken on vanished. “The Dark Arts are a danger, yes, but hardly the only one. Especially not now, when there has been no proven Death Eater activity for over nine years. In peacetime, there are more common, mundane, you might even say trivial dangers to worry about, but they should not be ignored. Does anyone know what is the most common peacetime threat to witches and wizards…at least to the eighty percent of you who do not live in Hogsmeade?”

A couple of hands were raised. Harry glanced at his sister and saw her frowning. He knew as well as she did that this had not been in the course book.

“Yes, Mr. Smith?” Quirrell said.

“Attacks by muggles, sir,” Zacharias Smith answered confidently.

“Correct.”

Harry gave a start, as did the other muggle-raised students. This was the former Muggle Studies professor? Well, they could see how it could be true, but still, if he of all people was going to start in with blood prejudice, there would be trouble. Hermione’s eyes narrowed as if she were calculating something.

“Three quarters of the witches and wizards in Britain live in muggle cities and villages,” Professor Quirrell explained. “As much as we pride ourselves on our separateness and secrecy, we live and work with muggles every day. And it is because of this very separateness and secrecy that muggles are prone to seeing us as ‘loners’, ‘eccentrics’, or even…‘freaks’.” Harry was sure Quirrell looked directly at him at that point. “People like that make for easy targets for troublemakers and bullies. That’s true in the muggle world and the magical world—it is not a muggle condition, but a human condition. But whatever the reason, it means that attacks by muggles remain the most common peacetime threat to witches and wizards to this day.”

Harry’s mind was reeling. Cousin Andi had taught him the rhetoric. He was sure Quirrell was gearing up for an anti-muggle rant, and then he just cut it down, almost like he was trying to play two parts at once. And the way he kept glancing at him was putting him on edge.

“The name of this class is Defence Against the Dark Arts,” Quirrell continued, “but perhaps a more apt title would be Magical Defence and Survival because it is concerned with all threats, not just those of the Dark Arts. With so many witches and wizards living on the outskirts of society, it is important to know how to take care of oneself, and that is what this class is intended to teach.

“By the standard curriculum set forth by the Board of Governors, which is, in fact, largely unchanged since the school’s founding, all students returning home after their first year at Hogwarts should be able to defend themselves in the muggle world—that is, against both muggles and non-magical animals. The first year Defence curriculum includes simple jinxes and hexes and their counters, and methods of escape and calling for help, which are usually all that is needed to defend oneself in the muggle world, and which provide a foundation for more advanced magical defence in later years. We will also cover basic survival skills and an overview of magical creatures this year—you may have wondered why Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them was on the book list.

“The second year curriculum continues the instruction in proper defence against the Dark Arts techniques, but also includes detailed units on wilderness survival and Class Two-X and Three-X magical creatures—something which carries the added benefit of being a good introduction for those of you who choose to take Care of Magical Creatures in third year. The third year curriculum includes Class Three-X and Four-X magical creatures and a closer overview of curses in preparation for fourth year, which is when the Dark Arts begin to be addressed full-time—yes, Miss Granger?”

Harry had been so busy taking detailed notes on what the Defence Professor was saying that he hadn’t even noticed Hermione raise her hand. “Excuse me, Professor,” she said, “but I think the most common danger in the muggle world is auto accidents, not assaults.”

Quirrell stared off into space, looking as if something had short-circuited his brain. With a sudden jerk, he looked back at Hermione. “That might be true for muggle-born students like yourself,” he said sharply, “but as most witches and wizards drive very little, if at all, it’s quite rare for them to get in an auto accident.” Ron Weasley chuckled softly. Hermione looked downcast, but Quirrell continued, “However, that is the kind of thinking that will be very useful in this class. Defence is about more than just skill with magic. It requires a significant bit of problem solving, and a skill that I consider to be seriously under-emphasised by most instructors, which is threat assessment.

“For example: would anyone care to hazard a guess as to what the most dangerous non-magical animal in Britain is?”

Everyone looked at each other. This wasn’t the kind of thing most of them had ever thought about. Slowly, a couple of tentative hands rose in the air.

“Mr. Weasley?”

“Is it snakes?” Ron said.

“No. Miss Abbott?”

Hannah Abbott froze for a brief moment before saying, “Is it wild boars, Professor?”

“No.”

Suddenly, Justin Finch-Fletchley’s face brightened and he raised his hand.

“Mr. Finch-Fletchley?” Quirrell said.

“Dogs, sir.”

“Correct.”

Now, it was the purebloods’ turn to be shocked. It was clear from their faces that none of them had even considered the possibility.

“It may surprise you to learn,” Quirrell said dryly, “that dogs attack more people and kill more people than any other animal in Britain, with the exception of bees, to which some muggles can have a fatal allergic reaction. After dogs are cows and horses, which are occasionally known to trample the careless or intoxicated who venture too close. To be sure, should you come face to face with a wild boar, it would be far more dangerous than any dog—but how many boars versus how many dogs do you encounter in day-to-day life?”

A couple of people laughed, albeit nervously.

“It’s easy to only pay attention to the big, but rare dangers and miss the small, but still very real ones that you encounter more frequently. As a result, you can be taken by surprise, and that is the most dangerous thing of all. Threat assessment means figuring out just how dangerous things are and how to respond to them.

“Another example: you might not expect the Defence curriculum to include household charms, but it does.” A number of people started at that.

“Doxies…are three inches high and can be killed with a rolled-up newspaper,” Quirrell said emphatically, “but they’re also Class Three-X creatures. They breed rapidly, fly in swarms, and have a bite that will fester badly if left untreated. Like most magical creatures, they are attracted to magic, and they like to infest magical households that are not adequately cleaned. Including houses in the city. Including muggle-born households,” he said with an odd grin, “although to a lesser extent because there is less magic there.”

That was news to Harry and Hermione, and they could tell it was to the other muggle-borns, too. Their very presence at home would attract magical pests? Why didn’t anyone tell them these things?

As if sensing their questions, Quirrell gave a slight jerk and seemed to switch gears again: “As Muggle Studies Professor, I repeatedly suggested a seminar for muggle-born students to learn important aspects of the magical world like that, which they might not hear elsewhere. The Board could never seem to justify the seminars given the low number of students who would be involved, but I think you can imagine how useful they could be.

“Of course, I would contend that pureblood students could use a bit of a primer on the muggle world, as well—something else that the Board refused to implement. First and foremost, can anyone name the most common—peacetime—reasons for violations of the Statute of Secrecy?”

Now, Professor Quirrell was going really far afield, but some of the class thought this was getting fun in an odd sort of way. Between them, they correctly guessed fights between wizards and muggles, careless use of magic around muggles, and magical creatures getting loose, but they were stumped when Quirrell claimed there was another major cause of such violations.

“Surely you know, Miss Bones?” he asked.

The round-faced, auburn-haired girl whom Harry now recognised as the niece of the new Director of Magical Law Enforcement, looked very nervous at being put on the spot, but she thought about it and stammered, “I-i-is it theft of magical artifacts, Professor?”

“Precisely. Muggle thieves will take anything that looks valuable—a racing broom that might look like an art piece to them, a magical or enchanted appliance that looks like anything electric, magical toys for the children—if you’re particularly careless, even your wand.

“Theft of magical artifacts happens more often than fights and nearly as often as reported careless uses of magic. And yet, most wizards leave their homes unprotected by so much as a Colloportus. Even for those who can’t afford professional wards, or perhaps live in apartments where they can’t be applied could do that. A Colloportus will foil a muggle lock-pick and will even resist efforts at breaking and entering, but it’s very rarely used properly, for the simple, foolish reason that it has to be reapplied every time the door is opened—leaving their property and their secrets unprotected because of sheer laziness. Defence of property is still defence, and we will spend a little time on that as well this year.”

“Now, unfortunately, muggle-born students do not have the option of using a Colloportus…That is why a charmed trunk is so helpful—something else that isn’t advertised to muggle-borns.”

Harry was starting to wonder what Professor Quirrell’s game was. He seemed to be trying to ingratiate himself with the muggle-born students, and, in fact, he was telling them things his family should have been told years ago—that not even his muggle-born Cousin Ted had thought to tell them, it was so mundane in this world. But at the same time, Quirrell’s attitude toward muggles seemed more than a little condescending. Harry didn’t know much about the Muggle Studies curriculum, though. Maybe that was how they did things. It certainly wouldn’t surprise him.

“Above all,” Quirrell said, “I expect each of you in my class not only to learn the required material, but also to understand why you are learning it. It is only by reaching that deeper level of understanding that you will be able to react to new threats and new situations. After all, one of the greatest mistakes you can make…is to be always fighting the last war.” He was staring at Harry again.

They got out of Defence at the end of the hour after a rather more normal lecture about the technical details of magical theory that Professor Quirrell assured them would be essential to learning defensive spells later.

“Hey, where’d she go…ah there she is,” Harry whispered to Hermione as they made their way to lunch. He led her over to the little auburn-haired witch. “Excuse me, Susan Bones?” he asked.

She turned to face him. “Eep! Mr. P-P-Potter!” she said.

Why am I always “Mister” around here? “It’s just Harry, Susan. At least if you’re not a Slytherin. And this is my sister, Hermione.” He offered a hand to her.

Susan laughed nervously as she shook his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Sorry…it’s just…Auntie Amelia talks about you a lot—you’re a legend in Auror Department.”

Harry and Hermione both rolled their eyes. “Of course I am,” he said.

“Well, it’s not like that…” Susan said. “Auntie says you prove that…you shouldn’t let your guard down because anyone can still get lucky.” She said this very fast, and she flinched back, as if she expected an angry response.

Harry and Hermione exchanged a glance with raised eyebrows. “That may be the most sensible thing we’ve heard all week,” Harry said.

“It is?” Susan said.

Hermione smiled. “Susan, our Cousin, Andromeda Tonks, has had nothing but good things to say about your aunt, and I think if she can see past the Boy-Who-Lived legend, that’s a good sign already.”

Susan’s eyes widened. She looked back at Harry, but saw him nod in agreement with his adoptive sister. She broke into a wide smile. “Thank you. I thought…” But she suddenly realised she didn’t know what she thought. She’d known on some level that the storybooks had to be completely made up, and that Harry’s victory over You-Know-Who had to have been just luck, but it was still shocking to see the Boy-Who-Lived dismissing the legend.

“It’s fine,” Harry said. “Are you okay? I know Professor Quirrell was being kind of rough.”

Was she okay? Well, aside from being about faint, probably. “Y-yeah,” she stammered. “I’ve—I’ve heard a lot worse.”

“Well, I admit it wasn’t the nicest way to make the point, but I didn’t think he was too bad,” Hermione said.

“Really?” Harry turned to her. “Didn’t you see how he kept staring at me?”

“Harry, everyone’s staring at you,” she said dryly.

“No, really, it was almost like he was mocking me every time he did it.”

“But why would he do that? I think you’re just imagining things. I like him. He seems really knowledgeable.”

“You like him? Didn’t you hear what he was saying about muggles?”

“I think he was just trying to make a point. He never said anything really against them, and he did teach Muggle Studies, after all.”

“Hermione, you remember what the Tonkses said. The Defence Professor is always bad news.”

“Well, he does sound better than most of them, according to Auntie,” Susan admitted unhappily. “If he’s a little unfriendly, it’s probably still better than being incompetent.”

“Besides, maybe he’ll be okay because of his one-year contract,” Hermione. “It’s only the first day. You need to give him a chance.”

“Fine,” Harry grumbled. Then he stopped short. “Oh! Hermione, I forgot tell you something.”

“What?”

“Not here. Come on—Sorry, Susan, private business.” He grabbed her by the wrist and dragged her down a side corridor and then a second one. Only when he was sure no one else was around did he tell his story.

“Harry, what’s so important?”

“Last night—” he whispered. “The Sorting Hat told me it had seen child animagi twice before.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped open. “It did?” she whispered excitedly. “There are others? Did it say who?”

“No, it didn’t say who, but it implied they’re both dead now—and it said ‘the clues may still be out there to find.’”

“We should try to find out—did you tell McGonagall?”

“Not yet. I didn’t have time.”

“Well, I think we should tell her on Wednesday. And we should find out who they were. We might learn something useful.”

Harry smiled at his sister. He’d figured she’d make that her first research project of the year.

In the Great Hall, Susan Bones sat down to lunch a little unsettled, but not that much. Children of Noble Houses had to deal with important private business fairly often. And if the Boy-Who-Lived really was just a boy, it probably wasn’t anything dark wizard-related. Nothing to write home about…for now.

Draco Malfoy’s reply from his parents came at dinner that very night. Sparing a few moments to gloat over his classmates that he received special evening delivery (a privilege allowed only to only children of Noble Houses who might need to receive “urgent political correspondence”), he unwrapped the package of chocolate frogs and opened the attached envelope. A simple bit of sleight of hand his mother had taught him allowed him to pocket the smaller, charmed envelope he knew would be inside without anyone noticing. The main letter was a generic, though heartfelt congratulation for being sorted into Slytherin and an encouragement to do well in the coming year—nothing suspicious, except perhaps in that it was so ordinary.

Unfortunately, he was interrupted from his thoughts when, of all people, Harry Potter himself approached the Slytherin Table.

Harry was a little nervous about going all the way around the Hall toward the end of dinner. He wasn’t the only one to move around, but they were few and far between, usually siblings who were in different houses. The Patil Twins might have done, but as the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Tables were next to each other, they usually just sat back to back.

Harry could feel all eyes on him as he made his way to the first year Slytherins. That would be an unusual enough move for any Gryffindor, let alone him, but most people would understand what he was doing when they saw it.

“What do you want, Potter?” said Pansy Parkinson, a hard-faced girl who seemed to be clinging around Malfoy.

“Excuses me, Miss Parkinson,” Harry said. “I merely wanted to introduce myself to the scion of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Greengrass and the heir to the Noble House of Nott.”

Theodore Nott tensed up as if he were about to strike, but Daphne Greengrass rose to her feet and snapped to attention, extending a hand to Harry. “On behalf of the House of Greengrass, I am honoured to meet you, Lord Potter.”

Harry shook her hand. “No titles necessary here, Miss Greengrass, but I am likewise honoured to meet you.”

Draco briefly wondered why Potter was moving so quickly, until he remembered the uproar the morning paper was likely to cause tomorrow, whatever was actually in it. His parents had taught him plenty about first impressions.

Theo glanced over at Draco, who nodded to him, something that Harry did not fail to notice. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter,” he mumbled. Neither of them extended a hand.

It wasn’t much, Harry knew, but if he could get his foot in the proverbial door early with Daphne, it could be a big help later. Like it or not, he was stuck in the politics of the magical world, and Cousin Andi would almost certainly need Adrian Greengrass Sr.”s vote for the Muggle Protection Act. And then there was the other purpose of this exercise: to give his sister a bit of cover for a more personal matter.

With Harry distracting the Hall, few people noticed Hermione slipping around to the Hufflepuff Table and approaching the group she guessed were the second year boys.

“Excuse me,” she said timidly. They turned to face in surprise. “I’m looking for Sullivan Fawley.”

A boy with curly brown hair not too different from her own spoke up: “That’s me.”

“Hello, I’m Hermione Granger,” she said, a bit awkwardly. “I…I believe we’re related to each other.”

“Are we?” Sullivan Fawley said. “I thought you were muggle-born—or that’s what everyone’s saying.”

“Well, I am…but my grandmother was a squib.” Hermione wasn’t sure how that would play, but the Hufflepuffs didn’t make anything of it. “Her name was Emilie Fawley.”

“Great Aunt Emilie?” Sullivan said in surprise. “Really? Dad never really talked about her. Is she still around?”

“No, I’m afraid not. She died in the war.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. But still, we should talk sometime. I’m sure you want to know more about your family.”

“Sure. How about in the library some day after classes?”

“Um…yeah, sure,” Sullivan said sceptically.

“Oh, I’d better go,” Hermione said, seeing Harry break off from his conversation. “It was good to meet you, Sullivan.”

“You too,” he nodded to her.

As she walked away and fell in ahead of Harry, she heard excited whispers break out behind her: “You’re related to Harry Potter’s sister?” Hermione sighed softly. Was it always going to be like this?

Draco waited until he was safely alone in his own dorm before opening the other envelope, the one charmed for his eyes only, preferably to burn after reading. His parents didn’t need an excuse to spoil him, but it was a very convenient way to slip in the real message:

Our beloved son,

Be assured that Lord Potter ’s rejection of your advances is no great loss. It was to be expected given his family background and the contact he has no doubt had with Dumbledore over the years. However, that Potter arrived at Hogwarts with a muggle-born sister was not expected and therefore merits careful attention. The fact that both of them were not instant sorts to Gryffindor also begs investigation. If they have any Ravenclaw or Slytherin tendencies, they will soon be apparent and will have to be considered in any plans. Proceed with great care around both Potter and his sister. Watch, listen, and learn before making any moves.

Pay particular attention to any interaction that Potter may have with Dumbledore. Based on our own sources, we agree that Andromeda Tonks was closely involved with Potter ’s training. However, the old meddler plays his cards very close to the vest, and it is surprising that he would permit your aunt’s personal involvement. If there is any sort of friction between Potter and Dumbledore that can be exploited, that would be a valuable weapon indeed against the current machinations of the liberals.

You should not be too quick to overlook Longbottom, either. The Hat sees traits that are hidden from everyone else, and while it may offer a choice, it cannot be bought. The Notts report that he also took the longest to be sorted, which is considered a sign of a powerful wizard. Longbottom should also be observed closely.

We know you will not let us down, son.

Father and Mother

Draco read the letter over three times to be sure he would remember it before tossing it in the fire. He had a feeling things had just got a lot more complicated.

The Daily Prophet

Tuesday, 3 September 1991

BOY-WHO-LIVED RAISED BY MUGGLES!

By Rita Skeeter

After weeks of speculation, the Daily Prophet can confirm that Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived and defeated of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, was, in fact, raised by a muggle family. This was confirmed on Sunday when, according to a number of letters received by parents of Hogwarts students, Potter arrived at Hogwarts in the company of an adoptive sister in his year, a muggle-born witch named Hermione Granger. This sister is believed to be the same girl seen accompanying Potter on his two trips to Diagon Alley over the summer. Both Potter and Granger were sorted into Gryffindor, the same house as both of Potter’s birth parents.

But this is not the full story. According to the reports, Potter himself claimed to have been raised by relatives of his muggle-born mother for several years before being adopted by his current family. Why Chief Warlock Albus Dumbledore, who appointed himself as the boy ’s magical guardian, would remove him from the closest family he had left and place him with the parents of the first available muggle-born child his age is unclear and only adds to the concerns over his control of Potter.

Speaking to some of Potter ’s connections, either magical or muggle, might shed much needed light on this situation. However, the adults standing around the Boy-Who-Lived continue to keep the wizarding world in the dark about its saviour. Both Ministry officials and Dumbledore refused to answer any questions about Potter, and the office of his proxy, Andromeda Tonks, also declined to comment.

Several enquiries into the muggle legal system also failed to produce results, as Potter ’s records are sealed under the Children and Young Persons Act, which protects muggle children’s identities in legal proceedings. Under current law, the Ministry honours this and other muggle statutes.

Mary Macdonald, a roommate of Harry Potter ’s mother, Lily Potter, née Evans, at Hogwarts claims that the late Mrs. Potter had a muggle sister named Petunia, but did not remember anything else about her. Searches for muggle records of a Petunia Evans or any Grangers matching the description of Potter’s adoptive family have so far come up empty.

Reactions to the news have been mixed. Liberal Wizengamot member and longtime friend of Albus Dumbledore Elphias Doge had this to say: “No, I don’t know where the boy’s been, but what’s wrong with him being raised by muggles? Plenty of muggle-borns have done pretty well for themselves in this country.” However, others are not so sanguine. Conservative Wizengamot member Robert Jugson II said, “Well, it’s certainly a concern if the Savior of the Wizarding World wasn’t even raised in the wizarding world. In my opinion, there is a cultural divide that muggle-borns are never fully able to cross, and that may cause trouble should Mr. Potter choose to take his family seat in the Wizengamot. But sadly, this is just another of Dumbledore’s many mistakes in his tenure as Chief Warlock.”

We at the Daily Prophet continue to demand accountability from Mr. Potter’s handlers. How did he wind up in his current situation? Why is he still being kept so isolated? What schemes are Albus Dumbledore furthering through Mr. Potter? Our own investigation of these issues is ongoing.

“Seriously?” Harry complained. “She’s making it out like I wanted to stay with my relatives?”

“Well, why should she know any better,” Hermione said, taking a bite out of her toast. “We haven’t told anyone the real story.”

“Maybe I should write them a response, though.”

“No, Harry. You remember what Cousin Andi said. Just let her handle it. She’ll write us if she needs help.”

“Fine,” he grumbled.

Harry did get quite a few questions about the article that day, to which he answered (truthfully) that his adoption was approved by everyone involved, including himself, and that he was very happy with his current family. And that he was unaware of any schemes Dumbledore was using him for. And, no, he was most certainly not going to tell them where he lived.

They had Charms that morning with the Ravenclaws. From Cousin Dora’s description, they had heard that Professor Flitwick was an excitable little man with a flair for the dramatic, and he didn’t disappoint. When he reached Harry’s name on the roll call, he gave an excited squeak and toppled over behind his desk.

“Please excuse me, Mr. Potter,” he said shakily as he hopped back onto his stack of books. “I thought I saw your father sitting there for a moment. Now, then, where was I…? Ah, yes, Dean Thomas?”

“Present…”

Flitwick began with a lecture on the overall theory of Charms and why each element of the casting—words, rhythm, inflection, and wand motion—was important. Toward the end of the lesson, he taught them the Wand-Lighting Charm, which was probably the simplest known charm (depending on whether one counted its counter-charm separately). The wand motion was a simple flick, and the incantation was only two syllables: “Lumos.”

Just like in transfiguration, much of the class who weren’t used to trying to feel or control their magic had trouble producing results. A couple of the Ravenclaws got it right on the first try, but some, like Neville, couldn’t produce any light at all. Others would produce light for a couple of seconds before it blinked out, or it would be the wrong colour, or in Ron Weasley’s case, it was accompanied by an annoying humming sound. Harry and Hermione, however, seemed to have the opposite problem.

Harry gave his wand a flick and said, “Lumos.” There was a bright, but brief flash of light and a pop, like a light bulb burning out.

“Huh, that was strange,” he said.

“I wonder why it did that,” Hermione said.

“I don’t know. Why don’t you try it?”

“Okay.” Hermione flicked her own wand. “Lumos.” There was a loud crack, like a whip, and an even brighter flash, like a camera flashbulb, which dazzled the room.

“Oh, my,” squeaked Professor Flitwick.

“Too much power, maybe?” Harry suggested.

“Maybe.” Hermione tried again, giving her wand a light flick and trying to send less power through it. She created a smaller flash, like Harry’s, but it was still a flash.

They both tried a couple more times, with similar results, and finally, Professor Flitwick said, “Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, please stay after class. I’d like to speak with you privately.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry said. Hermione looked downcast. How could they fall behind like this when it was only the second day?

A majority of the other students got the spell to work by the end of class, but Harry and Hermione couldn’t seem to manage it. They waited until everyone else had filed out and approached the front desk.

To their surprise, Flitwick hopped down off his stack books and sat on the front edge of his desk, swinging his feet slightly. “So, how long have you two been practising wandless magic?” he asked conversationally.

Harry and Hermione looked at each other nervously. “H-how did you know, Professor?” Harry asked.

“Professor McGonagall informed me, of course,” he said. “But it was also obvious from your reactions to the Wand-Lighting Charm. You aren’t the first students to arrive in my class with a talent for wandless magic. Why, your mother, Mr. Potter, was quite adept at it. So, then, how long?”

“We started trying about four years ago, Professor,” Hermione said.

Flitwick’s bushy eyebrows rose at that. “Really? What spells have you tried?”

“Well, we’re best at levitation,” Harry said.

“Ah, and may I see that, then?”

“I guess.” They looked around, and Hermione nudged Harry and pointed to a stack of fairly small books. They each wave a hand toward the stack, and the top two books levitated off the pile.

“Oh, well done!” Flitwick cried, clapping his little hands. “Splendid! I’ve haven’t seen anyone do that in ages without formal training.” Then he seemed to remember something. “Did you, by any chance, help a certain Nymphadora Tonks with her N.E.W.T. Charms project?”

Harry grinned. “We may have given her a few pointers.”

Flitwick grinned back, which was a little intimidating, considering he was part-Goblin and a former duelling champion, to boot. “Well, then,” he said, getting back to business, “the trouble you are having with your Lumos Charms is the same problem I have seen from every student I’ve ever had who was adept at wandless magic.”

“It is?” Harry said. “I thought we were using too much power, but—”

“No, that’s not quite right. The difficulty is that you have become accustomed to controlling your magic without a wand, which is a very good skill, but I have found that most people do not have the patience to learn it. We use wands because they focus our magic and allow it to flow more freely, making it easier to learn new spells. The problem you are having is not that you are using too much energy, but that, with the freer flow allowed by a wand, you are releasing it too quickly.”

“Like a short circuit?” Hermione said.

Flitwick paused. “I’m not familiar with the term.”

“Oh…well, it’s the same sort of thing with electricity…Actually, Professor, we did explode quite a few electric light bulbs trying to light them up when we were first starting out,” she said sheepishly.

“Of course,” Flitwick said. “That’s the same principle. You would have needed to learn enough control to tone down the release of energy from accidental magic to controlled wandless magic. Most people simply never learn to call forth that much power at will, but you will need to refine that control further to cast with a wand. It takes only a trickle of magic to cast Lumos. Why don’t you try the spell again, and this time, concentrate on releasing the energy more slowly than usual.”

“Okay, Professor,” Harry said. He drew his wand, but kept his arm as relaxed as possible, focusing on letting the warm feeling of magic flow out naturally into the magically-conductive phoenix feather core instead of trying to force it out. He gave it a small flick and whispered, “Lumos.”

The tip of his wand glowed with a soft, yellowish light that remained steady even as he waved it around. He laughed when he saw the charm finally work.

Seeing her brother’s success, Hermione screwed up her face in concentration and repeated his feat successfully casting a steady Lumos of her own.

“Excellent!” cried Professor Flitwick. “Five points to Gryffindor.”

Harry and Hermione beamed at the praise, but as they became distracted, they both quickly lost control. Within a moment of each other, their lights brightened and then popped out with a flash.

“Oh…well, of course, you will need some more practice with that,” Flitwick said. “Now, you probably won’t have this problem in Transfiguration, since you are learning to mold your magic there. But in Charms, where you must cast your magic, you will need to learn to maintain control and to switch quickly between one style and the other. You already know the principles of how to do it, so just keep practising like that, and come see me if you have any further trouble. I’m sure you’ll catch up in no time.”

“Yes, Professor,” the children said in unison.

“Now, I think you two had better run along to lunch. Ta ta.”

They nodded to him and left the classroom. Filius Flitwick smiled wistfully as he remembered how he had helped a certain Lily Evans with the same difficulty, and how she had gone on to become one of his best students. Yes, he thought, these two would be a pleasure to have in his class.

“Two other child animagi?” Professor McGonagall said in shock. “Are you quite certain, Mr. Potter?”

Harry and Hermione had arrived to Transfiguration Class early on Wednesday morning to catch their professor alone. Now that they had been to all of their classes once except Astronomy and Potions, they had a little more time to think about other issues. However, Professor McGonagall thought that it was entirely too early for this kind of news.

“That’s what the Hat said,” Harry replied. “Do you know anything about them?”

“No, I’m afraid not. I thought it was completely impossible until I met you. Did the Sorting Hat tell you anything else?”

“Only that “the clues may still be out there for you to find.” We were hoping you could help us find them, Professor.”

Hermione jumped in: “We thought we could try to look up known animagi from history and look for clues in their lives, but…”

“But the records are quite incomplete from before the Ministry was founded,” McGonagall finished for her. “And that’s not counting the ones who never registered at all.” And she knew two of those who were very close to Harry Potter. “It would still be a good place to start, though…and you may also wish to look at relatives of known animagi,” she said carefully. “It is thought by some that an aptitude for the skill may run in families.”

“Really…?” Hermione said, her mind clearly already running with the possibilities. “That could be very helpful. Thank you, Professor.”

“You’re quite welcome, Miss Granger. Was there anything else?”

“Well…” Hermione glanced at Harry and then stepped closer to McGonagall’s desk. Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, “If I may, Professor, you did say once that you might be willing to consider teaching a student the animagus transformation if they had a very good reason…”

McGonagall opened her mouth and shut it again, wracking her brain for any memory of when she might have said such a thing. It vaguely came back to her—her very first meeting with Harry, who now seemed to be hiding a snicker. Trust Hermione Granger to remember a conversation she’d had six years ago, she thought.

“It’s just that our parents want us to be well-prepared,” Hermione added.

McGonagall doubted Dan and Emma had been consulted about any such “preparation,” but while Hermione wasn’t entirely wrong about her opinion on the matter, now was not the time. “Miss Granger,” she said, trying to speak calmly, “this is only your second transfiguration lesson. When we get to the transfiguration of living subjects in the lessons, you will begin to appreciate the difficulty of what you ask.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, clearly disappointed, but then, they heard the footsteps of the other students approaching and quickly took their seats.

Professor McGonagall rose from her desk and sighed inwardly, trying to carry on like everything was normal and focus on the fact that she still had to teach today. But then, when were things ever normal around Harry Potter? Or, she was starting to think, around Hermione Granger?

Lunch was the most spottily attended meal at Hogwarts, with many people just popping into the Great Hall for a quick bite, rather than staying the whole hour. That made it an ideal time to discuss further matters that, while not secret, were somewhat personal, and something Harry and Hermione didn’t want publicised too widely just yet.

“We really do need to find someplace to practice karate,” Hermione said over their sandwiches. “We need to stay in form.”

“I guess,” her brother said, “but we’re not taking lessons anymore, and we already have a lot of homework.”

She rolled her eyes. Maybe he thought it was a lot. “Maybe just a half-hour before dinner each day to run through the forms,” she said.

“Well, okay, but we need to find someplace out of the way. We don’t want to attract too much attention.”

“I know. That corridor off toward the North Tower doesn’t look like it gets used much, and it’s close to the dorms. We could check it out after Herbology.”

“Fine,” Harry acquiesced. He should have known his sister would already have a plan.

After classes ended that afternoon, two young Gryffindors wandered around the seventh floor near their dorms to make sure they weren’t missing any hidden doors or corridors. The corridor between Gryffindor Tower and the North Tower was dusty and clearly disused. The closest thing around was the staircase headed down to the Hospital Wing. It seemed like the most obscure area they would find without going to the far end of the castle, to the unused corridors out past the library.

It was there that the two children, still wearing their school robes, started practising fighting moves that were rarely seen in the wizarding world except in the Far East. The school robes weren’t as convenient for this as their karate gis, but they were less conspicuous, and they were closer to a real-world scenario—though, granted, a real-world scenario would probably involve wands.

Of course, practising karate wasn’t exactly quiet, even though they were keeping the noise down to a lower level than usual, and they were bound to attract some attention. Sure enough, as they practised, a woman with a mane of frizzy brown hair even wilder than Hermione’s and thick glasses that made her look like a giant insect walked down the corridor from the North Tower, obliviously shuffling some cards. “Hmm…” she muttered with a wavering voice, “Deuce of Swords, Strength, Ace of Swords, Knight of Swords, The Moon, The Tower, and…Death reversed? Two mighty warriors who will bring victory, one with a great secret, who will escape from certain doom? Now, that’s just ridiculous.”

It was then that she heard the noise: the rhythmic stomping of feet and synchronised kiai shouts. And she looked up and saw the strangest thing she had seen in quite some time: two eleven-year-old children, one of them famous for the defeat of the most feared dark wizard of the age, viciously striking and kicking at unseen opponents in near-perfect unison.

Before they had time to notice her, Sybill Trelawney turned on her heel and headed back to her tower. “Too much sherry,” she muttered.

Just a few minutes later, a young black boy with a sketch book in his hand also heard the noise as he was wandering by from the other direction.

Harry saw him round the corner and stopped at once to face him.

“Hi-yah!” his sister yelled as she kept going.

“Hermione!”

She stopped and turned around. “Oh, hello, Dean,” she said when she saw the newcomer.

Dean Thomas, being mostly muggle-raised, wasn’t all that dazzled by the Boy-Who-Lived, but he certainly knew some impressive skills when he saw them. “Wow, you guys know karate?”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a look. Hermione shrugged her shoulders. It was going to get out eventually.

“Uh, yeah,” Harry said. “Professor Dumbledore said it would be good preparation for duelling later.”

“Cool. Hey, you guys mind if I draw you? I was just looking for stuff to draw around the castle.”

“Um…I guess not. Hermione?”

“Er, sure go ahead.”

They went back to their katas while Dean leaned against the wall and started sketching, though he was a little distracted to see just how much the pair knew. It was twenty minutes later when, sweating and out of breath, but in good spirits, they broke it off to see his own handiwork.

“Dean, this is really good,” Hermione said. He had captured them in an action pose, in the middle of a powerful, lunging strike, with a victorious expression on their faces. They were sure the sketch was larger-than-life, but in Dean’s own opinion, it wasn’t by much.

“Thanks,” he said. “You gave me a lot to work with. Are you two, like, actual black belts or something?”

“Uh-huh,” Harry said casually.

“Well, technically, they’re junior ranks,” Hermione corrected. “We probably couldn’t fight a trained adult yet, but we did have to learn all the same skills for them.”

“Wicked! You two want this?” he asked, tearing off the sketch. “I can always draw more.”

“Sure, thanks,” Harry said. Mum and Dad would like to see it, he thought, and probably better that than finding its way into the newspaper just now.

By Friday morning, the whispers were starting to circulate around the school about the pair’s “muggle duelling practice” in the afternoons, but they were surprised and relieved to find they were only catching slowly. A quick word to Seamus Finnigan, whom Dean had tipped off about it, explained why.

“Well, you’re Harry Potter,” the Irish boy said. “Of course you’re doing special training.”

Harry was little unsettled by that. Apparently, what was a surprising skill at age six—or even nine for that matter, though Cousin Dora had been more impressed with the board breaking—became more or less expected by age eleven, at least if you were the Boy-Who-Lived.

In any case, that morning, Harry and Hermione were surprised for a different reason when Hedwig brought them a letter along with their morning paper. Hermione opened the envelope and, with difficulty, read off the scrawled note:

Dear Harry and Hermione,

Sorry I didn ’t get a chance to talk to you more at the Welcome Feast. I thought you might want to hear more about Harry’s parents, and I want to hear all about your first week. I know you get most of Friday afternoons off, so why don’t you come by for a cup of tea around three? Send an answer back with Hedwig.

Hagrid

“Well that’s nice of him,” Hermione said. “We should really go see him.”

“Yeah, and he’s okay with calling me “Harry,’” her brother replied. He took the note and scribbled on the back, Thank you for the offer. We’ll see you at three.—Harry and Hermione. “Go take this back to Hagrid, please,” he told Hedwig, handing her the note. She took off and flew out of the Hall.

But unfortunately for them, before they got to see Hagrid, they had to survive double Potions with the Slytherins. Both Hermione and Harry, and all the Gryffindors, for that matter, were on high alert as they entered the dungeon. If Professor Snape was going for an intimidating atmosphere, he had certainly succeeded. It was cold and musty. The walls were dark stone unadorned by the sculpted shapes of rest of the castle, but lined all around with pickled animals and parts of animals floating in jars.

Severus Snape, former Death Eater, expert in the Dark Arts, and renowned potions master, swept into the classroom like a black-clad ghost at precisely ten o’clock and leaned over his over-sized desk to call the role. He paused when he got to Harry’s name.

“Ah, Yes. Harry Potter. Our new—celebrity.”

That probably wasn’t a good sign.

Draco Malfoy and his friends, Crabbe and Goyle, sniggered behind their hands. They knew better than to antagonise Harry Potter too much themselves, but if the rumours were true, they were about to see some real fireworks from someone who could get away with it.

Snape stared out at the class with his piercing dark eyes, and began to speak in a soft, but eerily menacing voice:

“You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potionmaking,” he began. He spoke in barely more than a whisper, but they caught every word—like Professor McGonagall, Snape had the gift of keeping a class silent without effort. “As there is little foolish wand waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don’t expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren’t as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach.”

The class remained silent after he finished. Harry and Hermione exchanged a knowing look. That sounded pretty much how Cousin Dora had described him.

Snape was staring at him, now. He instinctively stared back intensely.

“Potter!” said Snape suddenly. “What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?”

Harry had a vague idea of those plants were, having only skimmed One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi. He had read Magical Drafts and Potions more carefully, but didn’t remember seeing that combination. Maybe it was in there, though, since Hermione’s hand shot into the air.

Harry shot his sister a sceptical glance. Across the room, he happened to notice that Draco Malfoy now wore a surprised look on his face. He pushed this from his mind and looked Snape in the eye. Trying to answer calmly, he said, “I don’t know sir.”

Snape kept staring at him in a contest that would rival any with an angry cat, and his lips curled into a sneer.

“Tut, tut—fame clearly isn’t everything.”

He ignored Hermione ’s hand.

“Let’s try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?”

Hermione stretched her hand higher, but Harry knew this one. Cousin Andi had given him and Hermione each a bezoar and requested that they carry them with them, “just in case”—apparently something that many members of Noble Families did. “In the stomach of a goat, sir,” he said, “although in the event of an actual poisoning, I think it would be quicker to check the cabinets.”

The other Gryffindors giggled at this, but Snape was not amused.

“A point from Gryffindor for your cheek, Potter,” he said, “and perhaps you can also tell me the difference between nectar and honeywater.”

Hermione started to raise her hand again, but Harry reached over and forced it down. “I…think they’re the same, sir,” he said.

“Hmm…correct,” Snape grumbled, finally looking away to mask a slight hint of surprise. “That is, if the honey is diluted properly. Well, I suppose your knowledge is…adequate…for a beginner, Potter. And for your information, asphodel and wormwood make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. Well? Why aren’t you all copying that down?”

There was a sudden rummaging for quills and parchment. Harry blinked and glanced back toward the Slytherins and saw that Malfoy and his two minions now looked quite annoyed.

The Potions lesson actually went better than they had hoped, probably because they knew what to expect. Snape wasn’t much of a lecturer, preferring to just wander around and watch as they all worked on brewing the Boil-Curing Potion, of course, criticising the Gryffindors every chance he got. With, Harry and Hermione working together, though, there wasn’t much he could fault them on, although he certainly didn’t praise them, nor anyone, really, except Malfoy.

Still, there wasn’t much trouble at all until—

“Hey, wait, does it say to add porcupine quills there—?”

CRACK!

Behind Harry and Hermione, Neville’s and Ron’s cauldron melted down, drenching Neville with the unfinished potion and causing him to break out into painful boils. Snape took a point from Ron for not catching the mistake sooner and sent them off to the Hospital Wing.

Luckily, that was the worst thing that happened during the lesson. When Harry and Hermione turned in their sample at the end of class, Snape examined it and informed them, if unenthusiastically, that they would receive an E for it.

Classes ended at two on Friday, so Harry suggested that they go check on Neville in the Hospital Wing before going out to see Hagrid. As it happened, he was just about to be released.

“Yeah, uh, I guess it wasn’t too bad because it was a low-level potion,” he told them. “The more complicated ones can be really bad if they get on you when they’re not finished.”

“It’s too bad no one ever does anything about Professor Snape,” Hermione complained. “He was being really unfair to both of you.” Neville nodded in agreement.

“I didn’t think he was that unfair to me,” Harry said.

“What? What about all of those questions he asked you,” Hermione said.

“Well, yeah, but he only took one point from me. I was worried it would be a lot worse.”

“Harry, I looked it up. Draught of the Living Death is a N.E.W.T.-level potion. There’s no way he expected you to know that.”

“You did,” Harry said with a grin.

His sister folded her arms in a huff.

“But that’s the weird part…” he continued. “Mione, do you remember the flowers at Cousin Andi’s house?”

She remembered. The Grangers had spotted them as soon as they walked in the door.

The sitting room at the Tonks house was more richly decorated than the Grangers ’ living room, with delicate little tables and potted plants and fancier furniture. The Grangers had the money to match it if they wanted, but with younger children in the house, it wasn’t worth it. In one corner, they beheld a particularly elaborate arrangement with yellow, purple, and white flowers in a vase.

“Those are lovely flowers,” Emma remarked.

“Thank you,” Andi said. “It was actually my boss, Hippocrates Smethwyck, who sent them. They’re a compliment for my letter responding to Rita Skeeter in the Prophet.”

“They are?”

“Yes, it’s the Language of Flowers.”

“I’m sorry, I never learnt it.”

“No, even in the wizarding world, few do anymore outside the old families, but friends in the Wizengamot still use them to send messages to each other. See here?” she pointed out some of the blossoms. “Sunflower and willowherb: “I admire your bravery.” Goldenrain and marjoram: “for dissenting against delusion.” Double aster: “I share your sentiments,” and wolfsbane is misanthropy—together, they’re basically, “I don’t like her either.” And then sage and loosestrife is our little signature back and forth—it’s health plus pretencion because we’re both healers and politicians at the same time.” Emma chuckled at that.

“Wow, you can say all that just with flowers?” Hermione said.

“Mm-hmm. There’s a book about it around here somewhere. Very popular in the Victorian Era.”

“Yes,” Hermione said, snapping out of her reminiscing. “But what does that have to do with anything?”

“Well…I saw Malfoy’s face when Snape asked me that first question. He looked surprised, like Snape did something he hadn’t expected. I think there might have been some kind of hidden message in the question.”

“But why would he do that? I think he was just asking you a hard question so you’d trip up,” she insisted.

“I don’t know—Neville, do you know the Language of Flowers?”

“A little,” the round-faced boy said. “I should probably learn it better—I do a lot of gardening.”

“Do you know what asphodel and wormwood mean?”

“No, sorry. Your cousin would probably know.”

“Yeah. Mione, did you ever read that book of Cousin Andi’s?”

“N-no,” she said, embarrassed. “I didn’t have time with all the other books…but I think wormwood means “bitterness.” I’m pretty sure that’s in the Bible…Harry, that could’ve even been an insult if that’s right.”

“Hmm, maybe,” Harry admitted. “I guess I’ll have to write Cousin Andi and ask her.” He switched gears. “Hey, Neville. We’re going out to have tea with Hagrid in a little while. You wanna come? I hear he likes having company.”

“Wow, uh, sure, Harry,” Neville said. “Thanks.”

At five till three, the three of made their way out of the castle through the Clock Tower (“Isn’t it a bit dangerous having that big pendulum swinging in the middle of the hall?” Hermione said. Neville just shrugged.)

Hagrid lived in a little (for him) one-room hut down the hill to the northwest, near the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It didn’t look like much, but they supposed that for a really outdoorsy sort of person like Hagrid, it was just right.

Harry knocked on the door, but immediately flinched back when he heard a loud barking emanating from inside.

“Back, Fang! Back!” Hagrid’s own booming voice sounded. The door opened to reveal the huge man, who was struggling to hold onto the collar of the largest dog Harry had ever seen.

“Back, Fang!” Hagrid yelled again, but the dog kept barking, straining against its collar to make a run at Harry. Fang was a boarhound, and a big one—all black and nearly as tall as Harry, even on all fours. Harry took a defensive stance and hissed loudly, to Neville’s and Hagrid’s surprise, which seemed to egg the dog on more.

“Fang! What’s got into you?” Hagrid said.

Harry started to inch away, keeping his eyes on the dog, but Hermione grabbed him around the shoulders to stop him from taking off running, or worse, transforming. “Sorry,” she said, “my brother’s never been good with dogs.”

“Sit down!” Hagrid pushed the dog down to its knees. “Sorry ‘bout that. Fang’s a big softie when he’s not too excited. Go on then, let him sniff your hand.”

Harry positively blanched at the suggestion. For one thing, he barely knew anything about dogs’ body language. But Hermione took him by the arm and slowly pulled him forward. “Hello, Fang,” she said sweetly, “I’m Hermione, and this is Harry—just a couple of normal kids.” She extended his hand to Fang’s nose, but he sniffed once and barked again.

“Fang!”

Harry flinched back, but she tried again. This time, Fang licked Harry’s hand halfheartedly, and Harry finally relaxed.

“There, that’s alright, then. Come on in,” Hagrid said happily.

The hut was a cosy place for someone Hagrid’s size, if a little odd, what with the hams and pheasants hanging from the ceiling. But it had a bed and something like a kitchenette, and enough space to work. The three children came inside and sat down in two very large chairs. Fang bounded into the extra space in Neville’s chair.

“This is Neville Longbottom,” Harry said and Hagrid was pouring some tea.

“Longbottom,” he said. “Good ter meet yeh. I knew yer parents too, back in the day.”

“You—you did?” Neville squeaked as he nervously petted Fang’s back.

“Yeah, I worked with both yeh boys’ parents in the, er, well, back in the war. Can’t tell yeh too much ‘bout that. Lot of it still secret, Dumbledore says, but they was good folks, all o’ them.”

The details of what had happened to the Longbottoms were one of the few things that Cousin Andi had outright refused to tell Harry and Hermione, only saying, with shame, that her elder sister had put them in the permanent care ward at St. Mungo’s. They had decided not to ask Neville about it.

Hagrid passed them each a cup of tea and set out a plate of rock cakes. The children thought he either needed a cooking lesson or three or was taking the concept of rock cakes far too literally, but they politely gnawed on them around the edges as they talked.

“Well, I knew yer mum and dad almost soon as they started here,” Hagrid told Harry. “Yer dad and his friends were always gettin’ into trouble. Worse than those Weasley Twins, even. Seemed like I had to chase ‘em away from the forest at least once a month. And yer mum, she liked to take a walk around the grounds, and she’d stop by ter say hello. And of course yer dad, he would follow her. He was sure he was gonna marry her from his first year, but she always thought he was just annoying.” Hagrid chuckled at that, and the children joined in.

“Ah, but yer mum, she was a good soul,” Hagrid said wistfully. “Always lookin’ for the best in people. Even tried gettin’ along with yer Professor Snape—”

“What?” Hermione exclaimed. “Harry’s mum was friends with Professor Snape?” Neville paled a shade or two at the mention of the Potions Master.

“Well, fer a while,” he said slowly. “They moved apart—bein’ in different houses and all, and with the war going on. Dark times, that.”

“Cousin Andi—that’s Andromeda Tonks—she said Professor Snape and Harry’s dad didn’t get along,” she continued.

“Well, no, I s’pose not…but that’s in the past,” he said, not quite meeting their eyes. “I don’t think Snape’ll give yeh any trouble—or any more than anybody else, anyway.”

“I don’t know…” She told Hagrid about their lesson with Professor Snape that morning, with Neville uncomfortably filling in his own part, but Hagrid told them not to worry about it—that Snape generally disliked almost everybody. (“Then why did he become a teacher?” Hermione asked. Hagrid didn’t answer.)

Neville in particular looked relieved when they changed the subject to something else. Harry and Hermione told Hagrid of their life in the muggle world, interspersed with him and Neville trading a few stories about Neville’s family.

It was around when Hagrid entreated Harry to take a second rock cake for the second or third time that Harry noticed a newspaper clipping on the table and idly looked it over.

GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST

Investigations continue into the break in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown.

Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault that was searched had in fact been emptied the same day.

“But we’re not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what’s good for you,” said a Gringotts spokesgoblin this afternoon.

“You’re following the Gringotts story?” Harry said.

“Oh, that, yeah.” Hagrid sounded a bit cagey. “Gotta keep an eye on things when there’s dark wizards about.”

“Has Professor Dumbledore said anything else about it?” Hermione asked. “He told us he was looking into it.”

Harry passed the clipping to Neville.

“Dumbledore? Ah, no. Nope, says everything’s been quiet.”

“Hagrid, I think I saw you in the Leaky Cauldron that day,” Neville said. “It was the day after my birthday. Didn’t you say you were going up to Gringotts on Hogwarts business?”

“Huh? Well, I, uh, might a done,” Hagrid said nervously.

“Really?” Harry asked. “Did you see anything suspicious?”

“Nope, nope. Didn’t see nothin,’” Hagrid said quickly. “And no need ter worry ‘bout that here. Ain’t no safer place “n Hogwarts. No dark wizards’ll get in here while Dumbledore’s around.”

“Yeah. Right,” Harry said with a nervous laugh.

But despite this, Hermione and Harry were starting to make a connection between two things Dumbledore had said to them—two things that at the time had seemed unrelated.

Hogwarts was “the oldest and strongest magical fortification in Britain.”

The item in the vault was “moved to a more secure location.”

Dear Mum and Dad, Hermione wrote. She and her brother were seated at one of the back tables in the library, taking advantage of the spare time on the weekend to compose a letter home. They had spent quite a bit of time in the library this week, since the bookworm of the Granger Family wanted to get a really good look at the school’s massive (by the standards of the magical world) collection of books. She was disappointed to find that all the rare and valuable books were hidden away in the Restricted Section, but there were still more than enough to keep her occupied.

We ’re sure you’ve heard all over the Daily Prophet that we’ve both been sorted into Gryffindor, but since the Daily Prophet also says Harry was forcibly taken from his muggle relatives at age three, is a pawn in Professor Dumbledore’s evil schemes of world domination, and is a Chudley Cannons fan, we thought we should confirm it for you.

Harry chuckled as he read her neat, looping letters upside-down. “Hang on, let me explain that,” he said. Hermione slide the parchment across, and he added a line in his easily-distinguished blocky scribble: (It’s my roommate, Ron, who’s the Chudley Cannons fan.)

It turns out they sort you by having a magical hat read your personality and decide which house best suits you, Hermione continued. But maybe Cousin Andi told you that by now. It told both of us we’d do well in Ravenclaw, too, but it put us in Gryffindor because we told it we both wanted to go there.

We learnt a couple other important things that we can ’t tell you in a letter. Harry’s going to ask Cousin Andi about more secure communications.

We like most of our classes so far, except for History and Potions.

“I didn’t think Potions was so bad,” Harry protested.

“Harry, you can’t deny Professor Snape isn’t a fair teacher, no matter what else you think about him.”

“Well, no, but I thought the rest of the class was interesting.”

“He barely even taught.”

“Well, it was a pretty simple potion.”

“Neville didn’t think so.” She dropped the matter and kept writing: Professor Binns is just as boring as Cousin Dora said. I think I was the only one who stayed awake the entire time. I even had to keep elbowing Harry.

“Well, it wasn’t like I missed anything. We’ve both read A History of Magic cover to cover. Plus, Professor Binns didn’t even notice.”

“It’s still poor form.” And Professor Snape was really unfair, especially to Harry.

“Alright, give me that.” Harry snatched the letter away and wrote, Professor Snape wasn’t very nice, like Dora said, but I didn’t think he was any worse with me than everyone else. Hermione does, though.

“Hmpf.” Hermione grabbed the parchment back and added, He quizzed Harry on advanced level questions for no reason.

Harry grabbed it again. I think it might have been some kind of message, but we’re not sure yet.

“I told you, if there was a message in that question, it was probably an insult or something.”

“We should wait till we know for sure, Mione. Just think of it like doing research,” he said with a grin.

His sister rolled her eyes.

Professor Quirrell seemed really creepy, he kept writing.

“Oh, come on!” she took the letter back. I think Professor Quirrell is a really good teacher. The only odd thing is he always stutters when he says Harry’s name. But he seems really knowledgeable, and he’s been teaching us to think outside the box.

Harry dragged the parchment away from her again. He’s always giving me this creepy stare, though. And he made Susan Bones cry in the first ten minutes of class—she’s the Director of Magical Law Enforcement’s niece.

He was making a point.

He wasn ’t very nice about it.

They were practically writing past each other by now, and, predictably, it didn’t end well. Under the shuffling between their quills, the letter suddenly went spinning across the table with two large, black ink blots streaked across it.

“Harry!” Hermione hissed.

“What? You were doing it, too.” Harry waved his hand and levitated the letter back to them.

“Harry!” Hermione said more loudly.

“Shush!” Madam Pince warned from the front desk.

“We’re not supposed to be doing wandless magic in public,” she whispered.

“It’s okay. There’s hardly anyone in here today.”

“But what about the letter?”

“Hey, there’s a Smudge-Removing Spell in the Charms book, isn’t there?” Harry drew his wand.

“No! Not with that. You’ll probably set it on fire or something…Here, let me try it…” She ran her fingers over the smeared parchment.

“What are you—?”

“Shh, don’t distract me.” She closed her eyes and furrowed her brow in concentration. If a few moments, the ink smears had vanished, leaving the words intact.

“Cool,” Harry said.

“There, that takes care of that,” Hermione said with a small smile and kept writing: Professor Quirrell said some interesting things about magical households. Did you know that it’s important to keep magical households clean so they don’t attract magical pests? Or that magical artifacts should be kept locked up so they don’t get stolen by muggle burglars? Apparently those are serious problems here.

“I don’t think they’re as big of problems for us,” Harry said.

“It wouldn’t hurt though.”

“I think we should mention about Charms class.”

“In a moment. I was getting to that.”

“And the third floor.”

“Hold on. One thing at a time.”

“Why don’t you just let me write it?”

“Fine,” Hermione huffed. She pushed the parchment back to her brother and crossed her arms.

Harry began to write his piece. Anyway, the other professors all seem nice. A lot of them said they liked my birth parents—or at least my mum—they say my dad was a troublemaker until later on.

Charms class is harder than we expected. Professor Flitwick says wandless magic short-circuits or something when you use a wand, so our spells are going kind of crazy. He says my mum had the same problem, and he ’s been teaching us to control our wands better.

Hermione grabbed the letter and added, Privately, then continued, We’re both doing well in Transfiguration, though, because that’s a different kind of magic.

We each have four roommates here. They all had a lot of questions at first, but they ’ve been pretty good about it since. I have Parvati Patil and Lavender Brown—they’re nice enough, but they’re both real chatterboxes. Both of them are good at charms, and they’ve been helping us a little. And then there’s Lily Moon and Sally-Anne Perks, but they mostly keep to themselves.

My roommates are Neville Longbottom, Ron Weasley, Dean Thomas, and Seamus Finnigan, Harry wrote. Neville’s really nice, but he’s not very confident. We had tea with him and Hagrid yesterday, and he told us about his family. I guess his grandmother has really high expectations for him. Ron kind of has a chip on his shoulder, but he okay most of the time. Dean drew the sketch we sent you. He saw us practising karate and drew it for us. So far, only a couple of people have come to see us practise. Hermione thinks it hasn’t reached the rumour mill yet, or else people don’t understand it without seeing it. I haven’t talked to Seamus much, but he keeps setting things on fire on accident.

Oh, and Draco Malfoy came up to me on the train and tried to introduce me to the “right sort” of wizards, but I politely turned him down. I guess there’s a big Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry, but so far, none of the Slytherins have made any trouble.

It’s really eerie seeing the Great Hall and all the classrooms half-empty. I know we’ve heard all about the war, but it’s different to actually see it like this. It’s like it follows you around. I still think the other wizards are overreacting around me and all that, but it’s like it’s a little harder to blame them, now. Harry looked over what he wrote and considered whether to add more, but he just nodded and laid down his quill.

Hermione took over again. You should probably know that Professor Dumbledore says the school’s keeping something really dangerous on the third floor, but he didn’t explain why. It’s strange—the upper years say they don’t normally do that. Don’t worry, we haven’t gone anywhere near it.

She paused for a moment and looked the letter over herself before signing it, Love from Hermione.

Harry added, and Harry.

“There, that should do it,” Hermione said. She folded the letter in two and stowed it her notebook for when they went up to the owlery later. “So how far have you got on the Charms homework,” she said, pulling out The Standard Book of Spells.

“Not far,” Harry admitted. “It’s hard when we’re doing it different from everybody else.”

“Well, we’ve got to keep at it. It’s the only way we’re going to catch up.” Hermione was, predictably, throwing herself into Charms with even more than her usual enthusiasm, and was more or less dragging Harry along for the ride by now. They both worked on their essays for a while, until Harry saw something in the corner of his eye.

“What is it?” Hermione asked when she saw him staring over her shoulder.

“Hermione, that’s her!” Harry whispered.

She looked in that direction and saw a blond girl with a ponytail in blue-trimmed robes. “Her?”

But Harry was already up and moving. “I’ve been trying to catch her all week,” he whispered. He walked over, with Hermione following, to the table where the last child of a Noble House in their year was sitting alone, also studying Charms. “Excuse me,” he said.

The girl looked up and let out a squeak when she saw who was talking to her.

“Amanda Brocklehurst, scion of the Noble House of Brocklehurst?”

“Yes, Mr. Potter, sir. Pleased to meet you, sir,” she said, leaping to her feet and shaking his hand excitedly.

“Thank you, Miss Brocklehurst. Just Harry will do. This is my sister, Hermione.” He tried to politely extricate himself from her grasp.

The Ravenclaw squeaked again as she shook Hermione’s hand. “Hi…uh, everyone calls me Mandy,” she said before turning back to the boy. “Is this about the Muggle Protection Act, Mr. P—I mean, Harry? I know my Great-Granddad doesn’t really voice his opinions much, but—”

Harry held up a hand. They might have seen some of it in class, but it was quite clear now that this girl was even more overeager than his sister. “Calm down, Mandy,” he said. “We just wanted to introduce ourselves.”

“Oh…right…well…my Great-Granddad is Lord Ethelred Brocklehurst—but you probably already knew that,” Mandy started, trying to do what she though was a proper political introduction. “He’s the head of the Culture, Media, and Sport Committee. And, of course, he practically owns the Diagonal Theatre—have you ever been?”

“No, sorry—raised by muggles,” Harry said.

“Oh…well, you really should come sometime. I…I think you’ll like this year’s Christmas production.” She leaned in close and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m not really supposed to tell anyone this, but for their Christmas production, the Diagonal Theatre is doing a revival of the original version of The Wizard and the Hopping Pot.”

Hermione and Harry shared a confused look. It had been a while since they’d read The Tales of Beedle the Bard, but…“The one where the hopping pot saves the wizard from a mob of muggles by eating them?” Hermione asked.

“No, Great-Granddad says that’s the anti-muggle version that they started telling in the Renaissance. In the original, the wizard refuses to help the poor and sick muggles in his village, and the hopping pot annoys him until he does.”

“That…that actually sounds like a pretty good story,” Hermione said. “Is that like the magical version of A Christmas Carol?”

“Of what?”

“Never mind.”

“I’m a little surprised, though,” Harry said. “Cousin Andi said the Diagonal Theatre usually sticks to safer and more neutral plays, and this one sounds really pro-muggle.”

“They have done that for a long time,” Mandy confirmed. “Play to the middle to sell more tickets. But this one is part of Great-Granddad’s revival project.”

“What project?”

“What? Oh, I guess you wouldn’t know about that, would you. You see, the war destroyed so much—a lot of historic buildings were burnt, and a lot priceless books in family libraries were lost or damaged. So after the war ended, Great-Granddad started a project to ‘recover our lost cultural heritage.’” She imitated a creaky old man’s voice. “He’s been doing this kind of thing for a while, now—reprinting original versions of books that have been changed, and so forth. Lately he’s been talking a lot about how close wizards and muggles were in the old days, before the Inquisition. The play is part of that whole thing.”

“Harry, we should check that out,” Hermione said. “We can write Mum and Dad when it’s made public.”

“Sure,” her brother replied. “Thanks for the tip, Mandy.”

“Mm-hmm,” she squeaked, nodding quickly.

“So, Mandy,” Hermione said, “what do you like to do around here? We haven’t had time to check out many of the clubs or anything.” Of course, both she and Harry had discussed them with their roommates, but she had a feeling a Ravenclaw’s opinion would be more useful to her.

“Well, there’s clubs for some of the classes,” Mandy replied, “but Charms Club is the only really popular one. I was thinking I might join Professor Flitwick’s choir. And I want to join Flying Club, but I can’t till second year—Madam Hooch lives near my home. And of course there Gobstones and Exploding Snap and stuff—oh, but do you know those?”

“Only a little.”

“I want to try out for Quidditch, but I can’t do that until next year, either,” Harry said.

“What position? I don’t really play myself, I just fly, but you look like you’d make a good Seeker.”

“Probably Seeker, but I guess my dad played Chaser—I’ll play whatever I’m good at.”

Mandy nodded in agreement. When no one said anything for a few moments, Hermione spoke up: “It’s good to meet you, Mandy. We have to go post our letters, but we’ll see you later.”

“Sure—later,” Mandy said, her own mind now racing over what she was going to write home to her little brothers—and Great-Granddad.

Hermione and Harry made their way out to the owlery to send their notes. Hermione had made sure that she held onto their letter to their parents the whole time from when they wrote it, since, when Harry wasn’t looking, she had scribbled off a short extra note on a small scrap of parchment, which she slipped into the envelope just before she sealed it and handed it to Hedwig:

Dear Mum and Dad,

Harry didn ’t want me to tell you, but at the Welcome feast, something strange happened—he got a sharp pain in his scar —it was definitely right on top of his scar, not just his head. He said he was fine right afterwards, and I don ’t think it’s happened again, but I thought you should know. I’ll keep watching in case anything else happens.

Hermione

Meanwhile, Harry had a second letter of his own to post, though for a very different reason. He gave it to one of the school owls that was said by the older students to be especially reliable and sent it off to his proxy:

Dear Cousin Andi,

Something Professor Snape said in class confused me. He asked me a question about asphodel and wormwood, and Draco Malfoy looked surprised about it. I know it sounds strange, but I think he might have been sending a message in the Language of Flowers. Do those two flowers mean anything that would make sense? Hermione thinks wormwood means bitterness, but she ’s not sure. And if it is a message, can you tell me how I can respond to it? Like, what’s the flower for thanks if it’s a good message and the flower for anger or something if it’s a bad one?

Thanks,

Harry

P.S. I introduced myself to all the children of Noble Houses in our year. Their reactions were about how you said, but I did learn that Lord Brocklehurst may be a more valuable ally than we thought. Ask around about the Diagonal Theatre ’s Christmas production this year—confidentially. Mandy privately told us it’s going to be a pro-muggle play.

P.P.S. This letter isn ’t really sensitive, but we have some other things to talk about that are. Do you have any way of arranging more secure communications? Hermione is sure the Wizengamot must have something.

The castle was very still on Sunday night. With the weekend fun winding down, the students were tired out, getting ready for bed, or scrambling to finish their homework. Even before curfew, there weren’t many out in the halls, and the prefects and even the staff could be forgiven for being a little lax with the monitoring after curfew.

But there were two students out in the halls that night who were not winding down for class the next day. They were on a mission. They snuck through the corridors, evading the patrols with preternatural skill, thanks to their frequent consultation of a large, elaborate, charmed piece of parchment.

“Where are they now?” one of the redheaded boys said.

His double checked the map. “Still up on the fifth floor. We’re good to go.”

“It’s about time,” the first twin said. “Filch and Mrs. Norris have really got this place locked down tight.”

“Maybe we should’ve paid off Peeves to distract them. Oh, well.”

They approached a closed door—a large, heavy, solid door like many in the castle. It looked unremarkable by itself, but this door guarded a dark secret. This was the door to the forbidden third floor corridor, and Albus Dumbledore had claimed this corridor housed a “very painful death.”

But in the admittedly limited time Fred and George Weasley had been able to observe the Marauder’s Map over the past week, they had always seen exactly one name behind that door, one that didn’t look all that painful-deathy.

“Now who—or what—is Fluffy?” George said.

“Only one way to find out,” Fred replied. He tried the handle. “Locked.”

“Ah, but how well?”

They drew their wands. “Alohomora.”

The door came unlocked with an unfortunately loud click.

“Well, well, well, looks like they’re not too worried about security,” said George.

“Let’s see what we’ve got, then.”

The opened the door slowly, carefully. The Weasley Twins may have been troublemakers, but they weren’t stupid. They poked their heads around the door, one above the other, and there, in the corridor, they saw three very large dogs sleeping.

No, not sleeping. The creak of the door had woken them. Six large, dark, rolling eyes blinked open and fixed on the two intruders’ faces, and three big, drooling mouths started growling at them as the three dogs staggered to their feet.

Scratch that. One dog with three heads staggered to its feet.

Fred and George leapt back and slammed the door shut.

“Fluffy!” the both said at once.

“Must be one of Hagrid’s,” George observed shakily. “Only he’d call that thing Fluffy.”

“Boy, when Dumbledore says “very painful death,” he’s not kidding,” said Fred. “What’s it bloody doing up here?”

“What? Didn’t you see what it was standing on?”

Fred stopped. He opened the door and looked inside just for a second before slamming it again. The dog barked three times.

“A trap door. It’s guarding something.”

“Yeah, and it must be important to have this whole setup.”

“Huh, I wonder what—”

“I’m not sure even we want to know, brother.”

“Well, this is fairly useless,” Fred concluded. “The only half-decent prank we could possibly pull off with this is daring Marcus Flint to go in there.” They both stopped and sniggered at the thought. “No, it’s no good,” he admitted. “Getting someone killed is a little much even for us.”

“Yeah, no good—and really legitimately scary…Let’s just pretend this didn’t happen.”

“Right.”

Emma Granger heard a tapping at the window and looked up from making breakfast. “Oh, Dan, it’s Hedwig,” she said happily. Both Grangers were glad of getting a letter from their children so soon. After having two of them in the house for so long, the empty nest syndrome had hit them hard and fast. She opened the window and took the envelope, patting the snowy owl on the head and giving her a strip of bacon.

“Well, looks like they had an interesting time writing it,” she said, holding up the patchwork of their children’s writing styles. “Hang on—” She spotted the second note in the envelope, but as she read it over, her husband saw her frown deeply and turn a shade or two paler.

“What is it?” he said nervously.

“Something’s going on with Harry,” she said grimly, handing him the note.

“Oh…” Dan said as he read it. “That’s never happened before, has it?”

“No, not in the past six years, that I’ve seen. I smell magic.”

“Yeah, me too. Do you think we should tell Dumbledore?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with him on this. Harry won’t like us going behind his back. Maybe we should write McGonagall first. If she thinks it’s worth investigating, she can approach him.”

“Yeah, that sounds like a good idea…So what does the other letter say?”

“Oh, right…” She held up the main letter and imitated Hermione’s voice. “Dear Mum and Dad…”

Dear Mum, Dad, and Ginny,

Percy ’s bugging me to write you, so here you go. Guess what—I’m in Gryffindor! Yeah, that’s kinda obvious, but it also means I’m Harry Potter’s roommate! Harry’s a pretty nice guy, but he’s also kinda strange. Like, he actually traded me a pumpkin pasty for a corned beef sandwich. Who does that? And he says he was raised by muggles—sorry Ginny—but he already knows a lot of stuff, like that political stuff or whatever Dad works on. He’d heard of Dad before. And now, he’s been making friends with all the other rich kids, but he still doesn’t like it when everyone stares at him.

He and his sister were nice to me on the train though—his sister ’s okay, too, but she’s just annoyingly smart, like Percy. And it was really great the way he told off Malfoy.

Anyway, classes are okay, I guess. We ’ve got a lot of homework already though, and Snape already took a point from me because me and Neville messed up our potion. I can’t wait for next week when we start flying lessons, though.

Love,

Ron

Dear Harry,

Thank you for the tip on Lord Brocklehurst. I haven ’t heard anything back from the Theatre yet, but I will keep you informed.

The issue of secure communications is complicated. The most common way is to send a letter by owl that is charmed for the recipient ’s eyes only. It will appear blank to anyone else who tries to read it, and the charms are almost impossible to break. However, these charms must be placed in person. Wizengamot members keep supplies of pre-prepared stationary for this purpose. I’ve sent a few pages of mine so you can send the information to me, but I won’t be able to reply. We can have some made for you and Hermione at Christmas. That’s how most people do secure messages. A few people send messages with house elves. There are also ways to do it by floo, but they’re not strictly legal, and magic mirrors are the best, but they’re very rare and expensive—at least the ones with permanent charms on them.

As for Professor Snape, I urge you not to antagonise him. I don ’t know why he would be sending you a message, but if Draco Malfoy really did react to it, then I guess it might mean something. I can tell you that asphodel is a strong expression of regret. Wormwood can mean bitterness, but in the Language of Flowers, it more properly means absence. If you have a guess as to what “I regret absence” means, it’s as good as mine. An appropriate expression of gratitude to reply to it would be agrimony. But if you really feel that his message deserves a negative response, I would recommend scentless mock-orange, which signifies disappointment. Good luck.

Sincerely,

Cousin Andi

Minerva McGonagall made her way on a rather uncommon trip to the Restricted Section of the Hogwarts Library, wondering just how many more surprises Harry Potter had in store.

The letter from the boy’s parents had certainly been unexpected. With any other child, a sudden, sharp pain, having never happened before nor being repeated, would have been nothing to worry about, maybe even if there was some other dark curse involved. It might have been anything—a spasm, a twitch, a misfired nerve. Harry himself seemed unconcerned. But Minerva’s instincts were screaming that nothing was ever that simple around Harry Potter.

And so, she was headed for the library. She wasn’t sure how Albus would react, but she was sure that she wouldn’t be able to dissuade him from his decision, whatever it was. By Morgana, she couldn’t even get him to take that bloody stone out of the school. If the Headmaster tried to confront Harry directly over this, she knew the boy would not react well. It was time she took matters into her own hands.

She knew Albus had travelled far and wide in his youth and no doubt picked up a few things, but he was never an expert in the Dark Arts by trade. Not like Grindelwald. Almost anything he might know of the subject, he had probably read somewhere, and the Restricted Section seemed like as a good a place to start as any.

Minerva found one of the darker and dustier volumes on the shelves and started leafing through for information about curse injuries.

Word of Harry’s and Hermione’s karate skills spread slowly through the castle. For the first couple of days, only a few Gryffindors came to see, then there were a few Ravenclaws as well—scattered across all seven years. The caretaker, Argus Filch, had swung by and grumbled at them at one point, but Hermione pointed out that their practising there wasn’t technically against the rules (though that was probably because no one had ever thought to make a rule against it). It wasn’t until a week after they first started practising that some interested Hufflepuffs came up from the basement to see them in action.

“Hey guys,” a familiar voice called. Harry and Hermione both spun on their heels to see a tall, dark-haired boy coming up the corridor toward them.

“Oh, hi, Justin,” Hermione said.

“Hi, Susan, Sophie,” Harry added as two Hufflepuff girls followed Justin Finch-Fletchley into the disused corridor.

“So this is where you practice karate?” Justin asked.

“Uh huh,” Harry said. “You can watch if you want.” Indeed, there were already a couple of Gryffindors and Ravenclaws there to do just that.

“Sure, thanks.”

“So, um, what is…karate, exactly?” Susan Bones asked curiously.

“It’s a way muggles use to defend themselves,” Harry said.

“Most of the time, muggles will only attack with their fists,” Hermione explained. “Or maybe a knife. Karate is basically a way of fighting back that’s better than most muggles know how to do.”

“Okay…” Susan said sceptically.

“Here, we’ll show you.”

They ran through a kata, stepping across the corridor with lightning-fast strikes. It was clear that Harry was the faster of the two, but Hermione was no slouch either. The muggle-borns, Justin and Sophie were duly impressed.

“Wow, you guys are good,” Justin said.

“Thanks,” Hermione replied.

Susan, however, was more confused than impressed. Sure they were fast and strong, but it was only muggle fighting, not duelling or fencing or anything that was common in the magical world. “I still don’t quite get it,” she said. “I mean, it looks cool, but what is it really good for?”

“Well, you remember what Professor Quirrell said about attacks by muggles, right?” Harry said. “Even at our age, the average muggle would think twice about going against that if they weren’t trained themselves and didn’t have a weapon—mostly because they don’t know much about it, but still…”

Susan nodded slowly.

“But it’s more than that,” Hermione added. “It’s really about building up speed and reflexes so we can learn duelling better later. Professor Dumbledore recommended it to us.”

“Yeah, we were hoping there’d be a Defence Club or a Duelling Club here or something, but there’s not,” said Harry. “Maybe Professor Quirrell will let us start one.”

“Harry, do you…do you really think…You-Know-Who might come back?” Susan whispered.

“Well, Professor Dumbledore does, and that’s good enough for us. After all, if he does come back, Voldemort’s—”

“Ahh!” Susan jumped about a foot in the air and clutched a hand to her chest. Justin and Sophie flinched at her reaction.

“Sorry, force of habit. I was just saying if he does come back, he’ll be coming for me.”

“Okay, do either of you two get the hair on the back of your neck standing up whenever somebody says “You-Know-Who’?” Hermione asked.

“Oh, yes,” Justin said, with Sophie nodding in agreement. “I think you two are the only ones I’ve heard call him Voldemort—sorry, Susan,” he added as the redhead stifled another scream.

“It’s kinda creepy,” Sophie said. “Nothing like that happens in our world—or the muggle world—or whatever we’re supposed to call it.”

“Yeah, there’s definitely a culture gap,” Hermione said. “They had what might as well have been a civil war in the wizarding world ten years ago while our parents all thought things were perfectly fine. It takes some getting used to.”

“You’re lucky you’ve known about it for so long,” Justin said. “It’s so weird how we just found out about it, and suddenly everyone’s talking about the war and how destructive it was, and how small our year is because of it, and…” He glanced at Susan and then at Harry. “And all the family they lost. It’s just…I have trouble even thinking that way. Is it like that for you?”

“It was at first. We’ve been reading about it for years, so we understand most of it, but it is different seeing it for real.”

“I wish they would have told us all this the first time we did—what, accidental magic, is it? It would’ve made things a lot easier. My parents seriously thought I was possessed for a while. They called in priests and all kinds of doctors and stuff. And we’d get what’s going on here better if we knew sooner, too.”

“Yeah, that’s pretty close to when we found out,” Harry agreed. “We think it helped a lot.”

Susan Bones had been silently watching the conversation with interest—once she recovered from hearing the Dark Lord’s name spoken twice. Intellectually, she knew that the muggle-borns were coming into the wizarding world with no knowledge of the war, but it was still disturbing to her to see it in person. They really didn’t know. What must it be like out there with no dark lords and no war orphans and no murderers infiltrating the government? And the world she grew up in must be just as alien to them.

But the strangest part was what Justin said—his parents thought he was possessed? She had a hard time imagining how people who didn’t know about magic reacted to it when they were thrust into a world where things that might as well be as impossible as…as…as surviving the Killing Curse went and happened all the time! What must it really be like to them?

And then, a thought that many purebloods probably never had in their lives: why didn’t they contact muggle-borns at the first sign of accidental magic? The increased ease of maintaining secrecy alone would—she needed to write Auntie.

“You okay, Susan?” Sophie asked.

“Uh, yeah,” she said. “Just thinking.”

“So this thing that looks like a big sail just drops out of the sky from nowhere, and there’s a person hanging from it. I had to swerve so hard I thought I was gonna spin out the broom. I think he might have seen me, but he sure didn’t believe it. Dad told me later he thought it was something called a “hang glider.” Mum grounded me for a month, though. I mean grounded grounded—no broom riding.”

Ron Weasley, like many at the Gryffindor Table, was swapping stories of his supposed exploits on a broomstick as they excitedly awaited their first flying lesson that afternoon. Everyone who grew up in the wizarding world had flown before except Neville, whose grandmother had never let him on account of his having so many mishaps at ground level. Harry was beside himself with anticipation. Flying was perhaps the thing he had most wanted to learn in the wizarding world ever since he first learnt that magic broomsticks were a real thing. Even Hermione was eager to try it out, even though she couldn’t claim to be as coordinated as her brother. Neville, on the other hand looked on the verge of panicking at the very thought.

“Don’t worry, Neville,” Hermione offered. “According to Quidditch Through the Ages, riding a modern broom doesn’t sound all that much different from riding a bicycle.”

“But I never learnt how to do that either!” Neville whined.

The conversation was cut short but the screeches of the owls as they swooped into the Great Hall to deliver the mail. Harry picked up the newspaper from where Hedwig dropped it beside his plate, while Neville unwrapped a small parcel delivered to him by his grandmother’s barn owl.

“Oh, Gran sent me a Remembrall,” Neville said excitedly. The others looked up to see. It looked like a large, cloudy marble, or perhaps a miniature crystal ball with swirling smoke inside.

“A Remembrall? I haven’t heard of those,” Hermione said, surprisingly.

“They’re really handy to have,” Neville said. “See, you hold it, and it turns red if you’ve forgotten to do something—oh…” He trailed off as the glass sphere began to glow a harsh red. “Except…now I can’t remember what I’ve forgotten.”

Neville frowned in concentration, trying to remember, but Harry was suddenly on high alert, as he had noticed that Draco Malfoy, along with Crabbe and Goyle, had ignored the mail and left the Slytherin Table, and were now heading toward them. Professor McGonagall looked like she was on guard, too, since he saw from the corner of his eye that she had left her place at the High Table and was on her way down.

“What do you want, Malfoy?” Ron demanded, but Harry waved him back.

“Good morning, Mr. Malfoy,” he said, very stiffly. “You have some business here?”

“I’ve been hearing some interesting rumours about you, Mr. Potter,” Malfoy said casually.

“Really?” Harry replied. “So have I. About nine books’ worth, and a few Prophet articles, too.”

“I think you know what I mean, Potter,” Malfoy said, dropping the pretence.

“I really don’t. Is it the one where I’ve been training in Defence for years in Japan, the one where I’m so bad at Charms that I need remedial lessons, or the one where I’m concocting a vast and impractically convoluted plan to take over the wizarding world with muggle science?” Ron and Seamus laughed.

Hermione stared at him in confusion. “I haven’t heard that last one.”

“I know. I just made it up. But the others are all just as ridiculous. You shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Mr. Malfoy.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned to her roommate on her other side. “Lavender, none of those are true, okay?”

“Aw, what about the one about declaring a blood feud with Professor Snape?” Lavender Brown said, disappointed.

Malfoy sneered at the mere suggestion and said, “I’ve heard that you’ve been training somewhere, Potter, and that this training is definitely considered “non-standard.” Are you planning on doing something with it?”

“Not if I don’t have to. And why should it matter? I’ve heard similar things about you.” The Gryffindors sniggered.

At that, there was little choice but to change the subject. “Well, I hope you’re all set for flying lessons,” he said impatiently. “The Slytherins be joining you this afternoon, and I don’t want any of you holding us back—have either of you two ever actually been on a broom?” he said to Harry and Hermione.

“No…” Harry said, trying to exaggerate Malfoy’s haughty attitude. “We’ve dabbled in muggle sports a bit—it’s not the same, but you take what get out there.” Now, Hermione and Ron both stifled a laugh.

Malfoy started grumbling, but McGonagall was closing in. He couldn’t say anything too out of line, now, so he turned his attention to the easier target of Neville: “Your Gran sent you a Remembrall, did she, Longbottom? You should really get an elf to remind you of things, like a respectable family.”

“Well, G-Gran has her own ideas about how to do things respectably, M-Mr. M-Malfoy,” Neville stammered. Most of those watching thought he probably wouldn’t have talked back even that much if McGonagall weren’t hovering over his shoulder now.

“Clearly,” Malfoy said, and he and his goons walked off. Neville breathed a sigh of relief.

“Jeez, I can’t believe I’m related to that git,” Harry muttered.

“Yeah, me either,” Neville said softly. “It’s—it’s kinda crazy how that works around here. You know…the funny thing is…there was a time when we actually got along.”

“What?” Ron yelled. “You and Malfoy?”

“Yeah, see, our families always drag us to Wizengamot meetings and stuff, and all the kids would be in the play area. And when we were really little, we didn’t understand how much our families hated each other. But after a while, Malfoy started making fun of me because I’d never done any magic. I think he’s still hoping I’ll flunk out,” Neville said glumly.

“Hey, don’t worry about Malfoy, mate,” Harry said. “You’re worth twelve of him.”

“Yeah, Gryffindor beats Slytherin any day,” Ron chimed in.

“Thanks…” Neville looked back at the Remembrall in his hand, which was still glowing red. “But what have I forgotten?” He shook the ball in frustration.

Unfortunately, Neville’s luck didn’t improve that day. The flying lesson went wrong for him twice in the first five minutes.

“Stick your right hand over your broom, and say, ‘Up!’.”

“Up!”

Harry and Hermione could both feel the magic emanating from their brooms easily. They hadn’t tried the exact “spell” of calling a broom before, but the brooms reacted strongly to the magical contact, and they both leapt into their hands. Neville’s broom didn’t even twitch.

“Come on, mate, it’s easy!” Ron said, as he also got his broom to respond quickly.

“Try to feel for it like your wand,” Hermione suggested.

Neville tried, but he could only get the broom to roll over. Things just got worse from there, as he kicked off too early on the first exercise, lost his balance, and fell thirty feet, breaking his wrist.

“All of you are to keep both feet firmly on the ground while I take Mr. Longbottom to the Hospital Wing,” Madam Hooch warned, glaring equally at the Gryffindors and Slytherins alike. “If I see anyone in the air, you’ll be out of Hogwarts before you can say ‘Quidditch’.”

“What an idiot,” said Theodore Nott as soon as the pair were out of earshot. Most of the other Slytherins started laughing. Pansy Parkinson was obviously overdoing it as she stood by Malfoy’s side.

“I know, did you see his face?” Malfoy said. He made a passable imitation of Neville’s expression.

A tall, dark-haired girl named Elizabeth Runcorn gave her own version: “No it was more like this…”

Daphne Greengrass was the only Slytherin who wasn’t laughing now, standing off to the side, looking on with a disapproving look.

“Oh, shut up, guys,” Parvati Patil snapped. “He’s lucky he wasn’t hurt worse.”

“Ooh, you’re sticking up for Longbottom?” Pansy said. “Didn’t have you pegged for the fat crybaby type.”

Parvati fumed, but didn’t say anything more.

“Hey look, Longbottom dropped this,” Theo Nott said, snatching something small and crystalline from the grass.

“Let me see,” Malfoy said. Nott tossed the ball to him. “Oh, it’s that stupid Remembrall his Gran sent him.”

“Sheesh, who uses those anymore?” Pansy said.

“Maybe he should’ve used it,” said Elizabeth Runcorn. “He might’ve remembered to fall on his fat arse.”

“Probably better off without it,” Malfoy said, tossing and catching the Remembrall in his hand. “He’d probably just lose it like that dumb toad of his.”

“Give that here, Malfoy,” Harry said quietly, stepping forward and staring the boy down.

The Slytherins’ laughter went dead silent. They all knew better than to get between two Noble Houses, no matter which side they were on.

Malfoy flashed a wicked smile. “You’re sticking up for Longbottom, too, are you Potter? Are you declaring an alliance?”

Hermione went very stiff and prayed that her brother remembered Cousin Andi’s lessons. The question was clearly a trap. A “yes,” even an informal one like this, would have political consequences that they really didn’t want to get into. But a “no” would appear disrespectful given the past association between Harry’s and Neville’s parents.

Thankfully, Harry didn’t miss a beat: “I’m declaring that you shouldn’t take things that don’t belong to you.”

Malfoy made that little gesture of slightly turning up his nose that he used whenever he was trying to get the upper hand in a conversation. Then he swung his broomstick around from where it rested on his shoulder—it might have been a casual move, but it swung into a stance where he was ready to leap onto it.

Harry didn’t quite go that far, but he did take his broom off his shoulder with tense hands. He hadn’t taken his eyes off Malfoy’s the entire time, but Malfoy seemed to be all but ignoring that.

“Harry, no, you can’t!” Hermione hissed.

Malfoy’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly, and then he smiled a smile that was probably supposed to look pleasant and gave a small, calculated chuckle. “There’s no need to cause trouble, Mr. Potter,” he said, as if Harry had started it. “Here, catch.”

He threw the Remembrall in Harry’s general direction. An average person would have had to jump or scramble to make that catch, but Harry, with his cat-like reflexes honed by years of karate, reached out lightning-quick and snatched the glass sphere from the air one-handed, his eyes barely leaving Malfoy’s face and wiping the smirk right off it.

Several of his classmates gasped, and Ron exclaimed, “Wicked! Can you do that on a broom, mate?” Harry shrugged his shoulders.

“I might ask you the same question, Mr. Potter.”

The entire class whirled around to see Professor McGonagall stepping out from the shadows by the doors. Both Harry and Draco broke into cold sweats, though they’d never admit it. Just how long had she been standing there?

“And five points to Gryffindor for looking out for your fellow student.” Well, that answered that.

“What’s going on, Professor?” Hermione asked.

“Well, as it happens, no one has tried out for Seeker this year on the Gryffindor House Quidditch Team,” McGonagall explained. “Normally, when a house is unable to field a full team after tryouts, we open up recruitment to first years.” There were gasps from both houses on the Training Grounds. “I have come to see if any of my lions are interested in playing. And Mr. Potter, if you are anywhere near as coordinated in the air, and I have every reason to believe you are,” she said with a small smile, “I think you would make a fine Seeker, even as a first year, with your parents’ permission, of course.”

There were still a few titters whenever some mentioned Harry having living parents, but he ignored them. If he’d known a little more wandless magic, has face would have literally lit up at the prospect of being able to play Quidditch this year. Hermione looked at him nervously, hoping he wouldn’t do anything rash in his excitement.

“I think I can persuade them, Professor,” he said with a grin.

“Potter?” Malfoy said sceptically. “He’s never even been on a broom.”

“Hey, if he can catch like that, he’ll be a great Seeker in no time, right Harry?” Ron said, clapping Harry on the shoulder. “You’ve seen a Quidditch game, at least, right?”

“No, but I’ve read Quidditch Through the Ages, so I know basically how it works—And I can do fine on a bike, Mr. Malfoy. That’s probably a good start.”

Malfoy glared at Harry for a few moments, obviously weighing his options. He’d been complaining loudly all week about first years never getting on the house teams and boasting about his training at home. But he turned from Harry to McGonagall and put on an innocent look. “Professor,” he said, “it doesn’t seem fair for one house to have a larger recruitment pool than the others. I think the first years from the other houses should at least have the chance to try out for Seeker.” Then he smiled. “If there are any problems, I’m sure my father can move for some extra exemptions on the Board.” Of course, Malfoy had followed all of the tryouts and knew full well that Slytherin’s Terrence Higgs was the only Seeker whose position could possibly be threatened. Hufflepuff’s Cedric Diggory was miles ahead of the competition, and Ravenclaw had a regular plus their new reserve, Cho Chang in second year.

McGonagall knew all this, too, but she also knew Lucius Malfoy tended to get his way. “That is a reasonable concern, Mr. Malfoy,” she said, making an effort to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. “Any Slytherin students who wish to try the drills this afternoon may do so, and I will speak to Professor Snape about arranging a re-tryout.”

Malfoy grinned smugly at Harry, as did several of the other Slytherins. Harry might be the best Gryffindor had to offer, but by any objective standard, Malfoy would be the favourite to dominate those drills.

“Any trouble out here, Professor?” Madam Hooch had returned from the Hospital Wing.

“Not at all, Madam Hooch,” McGonagall told here. “As you know, Gryffindor is in need of a Seeker. I was wondering if, at the end of the lesson, we could run some Seeker drills.”

Madam Hooch looked out sceptically over the first years. “Well, I suppose if any of them are good enough on a broom to begin with, we can. I already had to take Longbottom in with a broken wrist—well, nothing for it. Everyone mount your brooms again, we’ll get started. And do try to follow after the whistle. You remember your instructions? Kick off from the ground, hard. Rise a few feet, than lean forward slightly to come back down. Ready? Three—two—one—”

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and nineteen pairs of feet kicked off the ground. Fifteen brooms rose about ten feet in the air and then held still, but four, those ridden by the muggle-raised students, didn’t behave as nicely. Dean Thomas and Sally-Anne Perks only got about five feet off the ground. Sally-Anne was wobbling and in danger of falling off, but her friend, Lily Moon, grabbed her hand from above to steady her. Meanwhile, for Harry and Hermione, who were better trained, both physically and magically, the brooms responded more strongly to a hard kick off the ground, and they both shot up over twenty feet like a cork from a champagne bottle.

Hermione’s stomach gave a lurch, but she remained steady. Harry, on the other hand, was already wearing a manic grin. This was easy. This was wonderful. He felt like he could just give the broom a little nudge and sail clear around the castle. But McGonagall was watching, and he heard Madam Hooch yelling at them to come back down with the others. They both leaned forward slightly and drifted back down to the ground.

“Well, that was interesting,” Hermione muttered.

But Madam Hooch looked happy about the performance. “Good,” she said. “We need to do a few of these basic exercises so you can all get a good feel for proper broom handling. Most of you have got off to a good start, but you can always use a refresher. Mr. Thomas and Miss Perks, a little sharper on that kick, and be sure to keep a firm grip. Mr. Potter and Miss Granger, I think you’re going to need a little bit of a lighter touch. Now, everyone line back up…Again…”

They ran the exercise several more times until everyone could kick off to the same level. Then they started adding other movements: first pulling up to go higher, then swivelling left and right. The tricky part was learning the difference between going higher and slowing down and, more dangerously, between speeding up and going lower. You had to lean forward to go down, but to gain speed, you had to sort of stretch out along the broom a little bit. That was the closest one could get to “pushing forward” on a broomstick that was already lined up forwards and backwards. And there was a similar confusion pulling up to go higher and pulling back to slow down. Even some of the purebloods needed some brushing up on that, although Malfoy ran all of the exercises easily, looking visibly bored.

Dean and Sally-Anne needed quite a bit of work to get the basic manoeuvres down, and they had several close calls along the way. Hermione was a little unsteady, but she was, as always, a quick study.

“Push your body down closer to the shaft,” Ron Weasley said. “It lowers air resistance.” Harry and Hermione followed his advice and found themselves gliding forward much more smoothly. Ron may have been a lot of talk, but he did know how to fly. Then, both of their brooms swerved, and they nearly collided. Harry pulled back quickly and let Hermione get in front of him.

“Whoa, watch out!” Ron warned them. “Gotta be careful on the school brooms. Fred and George said a lot of them pull to one side.”

“Very good, Mr. Potter, but keep the speed down for now,” Madam Hooch said when they’d all returned to the starting line. “I’d like you to run that one again, but arrange yourselves into two rows, above and below. That will give you more room to turn. You’ll need that when we add more turns in a few minutes. Everyone ready?”

They kicked off again and drifted into a semblance of a formation, but they hadn’t practised arranging formations very much, so it was an awkward prospect

“No, you don’t need to turn, just lean straight to the side, like this,” Ron suggested. His body tilted to the right, and his broom said directly sideways.

“What?” Hermione said in disbelief. That looked like a good way to fall off.

“It takes some getting used to, but if you keep a good grip, it’s fine if you’re not going too fast.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice. He leaned left and slid effortlessly into his spot in the formation, and Hermione cautiously did the same.

With Ron’s and Harry’s help, Hermione was getting the hang of flying. By the end of the lesson, she was flying the slow, lazy circles around the training grounds just as well as several of the purebloods in the group. Hovering in the autumn air was really relaxing when she wasn’t doing any too intense, she found. But Harry—he was in his element like she had never imagined. He got every manoeuvre on the first or second try, and when he messed up, it was usually for not using a light enough touch. When they got to the free flying period toward the end of the lesson—restricted to low speeds and altitudes and staying within the training grounds—he was literally flying circles around her. Thankfully, the Slytherins and Gryffindors were each keeping to themselves for the moment.

“Isn’t this great, Hermione?” Harry yelled.

“It’s nice…” she said, trying to turn her head and follow him with her eyes. “Flying up with the birds and all…You look like you’re having a little too much fun with it, though.” Harry laughed and swooped over and under her. “Okay, seriously, did you sneak Cousin Dora’s broom out when we were at her house? No one should be that good their first time flying.”

“Nope, just lucky, I guess.”

Madam Hooch blew her whistle, and the students rushed back down to the starting line. Professor McGonagall was standing nearby, transfiguring some small stones into what looked like yellow golf balls. “Alright, I think you’re ready to try some Seeker Drills,” Madam Hooch said, to some excited murmurs. “Be warned, I will not hesitate to ground anyone I see flying recklessly. These will not be easy. There’s a reason we don’t normally open the teams to first years. Now, everyone who is interested in trying out for the House Teams please step up to the starting line.”

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy immediately stepped forward. So did Ron Weasley, saying, “Eh, I usually play Keeper, but I’ll give it a try.” Seamus and Lily also stepped forward, as did Blaise Zabini and Elizabeth Runcorn for Slytherin. Harry looked back at his sister and said, “Come on.”

Hermione just shook her head.

“Come on, Mione, you should at least try it.”

“Well, okay,” she conceded, “but I know you can beat me.”

“Anyone else?” McGonagall asked as she faced the eight students on the starting line. “Okay, one at a time, then. This will be a very simple drill to begin. I will send these three balls down the training grounds. You objective will be to catch as many as you can before they touch the ground, from a hovering start. And I want to make this a fair contest, so no magic should be used in retrieving them. Understood?” Her eyes lingered on Harry and Hermione with that statement. The students all nodded. “Good. Beginning alphabetically, Mr. Finnigan, mount your broom, please.”

Seamus hopped on his broom and kicked off to hover over McGonagall’s head.

“Ready, Mr. Finnigan—three—two—one—Depulso.”

With her carefully aimed Banishing Charms, McGonagall lobbed the three practice snitches down the Training Grounds one by one. They flew in simple parabolic arcs, not being charmed to actually fly around and evade, like real snitches. Seamus took off like a rocket, faster than anyone had flown during the lesson. The ancient school broom wobbled and protested at the speed, but he kept going. The bright yellow ball was sailing ahead of him, and he lunged and plucked it out of the air. Then he swerved hard to the right and, with a bit of a scramble, grabbed the second one, but the third eluded him. He swooped low for it, but it hit the ground before he could get close enough. Still, the other Gryffindors applauded when he came back to the starting line.

Hermione’s turn was next. She looked very nervous when she kicked off the ground. She was pretty well coordinate from karate, but she didn’t feel like it would carry over all that well to flying. When McGonagall banished the first practice snitch, she raced toward it, gripping her broom handle as tight as she could, and surprised herself by reaching out and snatching it almost before she knew what was happening. She took a different strategy from Seamus and ignored the second ball, not expecting to be able to be able to get it that fast, and instead focused on the third, which was racing toward her. She flew toward it and caught it so fast that it stung her hand. The Slytherins looked annoyed at a muggle-born flying so well her first time as she returned to the starting line, but Harry was applauding loudly and shouting, “Way to go, Hermione!” When she landed, she was quickly mobbed by Lavender Brown and Parvati Patil, who insisted on asking what her “secret” was.

Malfoy was up, and from the moment his feet left the ground, it was clear that he hadn’t been lying. He really was that good. He swooped back and forth across the Training Grounds and caught all three practice snitches with ease. The Slytherins all cheered, and upon seeing that performance, Blaise Zabini just shook his head and put his broom down.

Lily Moon was a surprise breakout and also managed to catch all three balls, though not without difficulty, and then it was Harry’s turn.

“Come on, go and beat Malfoy,” Ron encouraged him, but Harry was just worried about doing better than Lily and making the team. But either way, he was ready to see what these school brooms could really do. When McGonagall let the first ball fly, Harry raced after it, compensating for the broom’s pull to the left without even thinking about it. The yellow ball grew larger in his glasses and then, in an instant, it was in his hand. He pocketed it as he swung around looking for the second one. He spotted it at once and made a beeline for it, and nabbed the third just a moment later. He certainly wasn’t gracefully swooping, like Malfoy, though. Harry was a hunter, and he was charging straight at his prey at top speed.

That was too easy, he thought. As he raced back to the starting line, some of the Gryffindors were cheering, but others were standing open-mouthed, amazed that he could move so fast. McGonagall shot him a feral grin that he was sure only he could spot, and, just as Blaise had done, Ron shook his head and put his broom down. So did Hermione. So did Seamus. Lily was still in, but Harry could tell she knew she was outclassed.

“Potter, you liar!” Malfoy stepped forward, coming nose-to-nose with him. “How long have you really been flying?”

“Really, Malfoy, this is my first day,” Harry said calmly. “I’m sure there’s plenty in the upper years who are better than me.”

“Uh-uh. No one’s that good their first day.”

But Harry just smiled. “You’d be surprised what you can learn from muggle sports, Mr. Malfoy.”

“Ahem,” McGonagall interrupted before Malfoy could respond. “I believe Miss Runcorn still has to fly.”

Elizabeth Runcorn also managed to catch all three balls, making it four of them to continue to the next drill.

For the second drill, McGonagall made things quite a bit harder, standing in the middle of the Training Grounds and banishing no fewer than ten balls into the air, still one at a time, but in every direction. Malfoy again dazzled the class with his acrobatics and caught nine of them. Harry was sure McGonagall was starting to get a little annoyed herself at the Slytherin’s prowess by the end. Lily tried her best and caught seven.

Harry knew he would probably make the House Team if he caught eight, but it would be nice to beat Malfoy, too. McGonagall didn’t go easy on him, though. He was darting back and forth across the Training Grounds in full hunting mode, remembering his experience chasing after mice and birds in his younger days. Three! Four! Five! He did a back-flip and rolled over when one ball went into a far corner to get back to the middle as fast as possible. Seven! Eight! Nine! He was sure he’d won the tryouts, but he wanted that perfect score. He saw McGonagall’s last ball soar high into the air at the far corner of the Training Grounds. It was too far! But he had to try. He leaned forward hard and stretched himself out along the broom, launching into a steep dive, determined to make the catch in time. He heard several voices scream out, “Harry!,” and he was sure one of them was McGonagall’s. He stretched out a hand and caught the ball what seemed like a foot from the ground, just in time—barely—to pull his broom straight. With his momentum, he tumbled off the side and onto the grass, but he thrust his fist triumphantly into the air.

“HARRY POTTER!”

Harry sat up quickly at Professor McGonagall’s shouting over the cheers of his classmates. He was sure he heard her hiss at him as she approached. But before he could react, he was blinded by a mass of bushy brown hair as his sister nearly bowled him over in a frantic hug.

“Oh, thank God you’re alright,” Hermione whimpered. Harry smiled at her as she pulled away, but then she whacked him in the side of the head, hard. “Harry James Potter, don’t you ever scare me like that again!” she yelled. “What was I supposed to tell Mum and Dad if you broke your neck up there?”

A few of the Slytherins sniggered at the Boy-Who-Lived getting smacked by the one person in the school who could smack him and get away with it, and a few others sniggered at the trouble they were sure he was about to get into—but those weren’t the smart ones.

“Harry Potter, never in all my time at Hogwarts—” McGonagall started, but words seemed to fail her.

“You’re lucky the lesson’s over, Mr. Potter, because that definitely counts as reckless,” Madam Hooch scolded.

“Eh, sorry, Professors,” Harry said nervously. “I guess I got a little carried away.”

“A little?” It was Ron speaking. “Bloody hell, Harry, I don’t think my brother Charlie could have made that catch.”

“Really?” Harry said sceptically. “But wasn’t he Captain or something?”

But McGonagall confirmed it: “Mr. Weasley may well be right, Mr. Potter. I believe Gryffindor has found its new Seeker.”

“Uh—uh, thank you, ma’am?” Harry stammered.

McGonagall ran Elizabeth Runcorn through the drill, but she only caught eight balls and graciously conceded defeat to Malfoy.

“If you would come with me, I would like to introduce you to Oliver Wood, the Gryffindor Team Captain,” McGonagall told Harry. “Miss Granger, you may come along too, if you like. Mr. Malfoy…” she turned to face the blond boy. “Excellent performance,” she said halfheartedly. “I will inform Professor Snape and Captain Flint.”

“Thank you Professor,” Malfoy replied, with a smile that would have been a lot more smug if he hadn’t just been beat out by Harry Potter.

“By the way, Miss Granger, you’re not a bad flier yourself,” McGonagall said as she led them away. “I think you might wish to consider trying out for Chaser next year.”

Hermione blinked in disbelief. “Really, Professor?”

“Your brother’s performance notwithstanding, that really was a good showing for your first time on a broom, and the strategic thinking you showed would be excellent for the Chaser position.”

“Hermione, that would be great if we could be on the team together,” Harry said.

“Wow, thank you, Professor. Um, I’ll think about that.”

“A Seeker, you say, Minerva?” said Albus Dumbledore, raising his bushy white eyebrows.

“I’ve never seen anything like it, Albus,” Minerva replied with a rare air of excitement. “The boy’s a natural. His first day on a broom, and he caught a practice snitch in a fifty-foot dive. Charlie Weasley couldn’t have done it, or at least not at his age.”

“Hmm, very impressive,” Albus said thoughtfully.

“If his guardians approve of him joining the team, I think we’ll have a decent chance at the Cup this year,” Minerva continued. “And heaven knows we need it. Severus was gloating for weeks after last year’s match.”

“Of course,” Albus said with a smile. “And as the boy’s magical guardian, I will happily grant my approval—”

“But you’re not.”

“Excuse me?”

“Didn’t you know? Andromeda Tonks took over as both Harry’s and Hermione’s magical guardian over a month ago. Surely you were informed. I think you may be slipping, Albus.”

The Headmaster seemed uncomfortable as he looked over to one corner of his office where he kept a large stack of government paperwork. He drew his wand and muttered a complex summoning spell. Two documents flew out of the middle of the stack and settled on his desk. He looked them over. There it was, just as Minerva had said. It was a minor point in the grand scheme of things and probably better for the children, to be honest, but he was a bit unsettled that it had managed to slip by him. “I must have missed it on the first pass,” he said with a weak smile. “I trust that you will contact Madam Tonks and the Grangers?”

“Of course. I will keep you informed.” She turned to leave, but looked back for a moment. “Oh, and I suspect that Draco Malfoy will be the Slytherin Team’s Seeker by Monday,” she added. She walked out down the spiral staircase.

Albus sighed. Why am I not surprised?

“Do you think we have time for karate practice before dinner?” Harry asked after McGonagall had dismissed them.

“After all that, you still want to practice karate?” Hermione said.

“Hey, you’re the one who said we should practice every day.”

“Hmm…” she checked her watch. “I guess we have time to run a few if we hurry up to the seventh floor.”

They went on to the Grand Staircase and climbed up the four flights from their meeting with Wood to the seventh floor corridor. But they didn’t particularly notice that someone was following them—someone who had been following them all the way from the Training Grounds.

Something about Harry Potter didn’t make sense, thought Draco Malfoy. Maybe more than one something, and he was going to get to the bottom of it. Could it be that these muggle sports of his really made the difference? He had heard the rumours filtering through the castle about Potter’s and his sister’s supposed “training.” It was time he saw it for himself.

So he followed at a distance, planning to watch from the shadows to see what they were really up to. He motioned behind him for his friend to follow—not Crabbe or Goyle: they didn’t have a clue about being discreet. He’d brought Theo Nott along with him. Ultimately, this was a matter for the Noble Houses, after all. Theo had an impatient look about him at the moment, but he reluctantly accepted the importance of intelligence gathering. Draco and Theo were all set to spy on the two without being seen, but they needn’t have worried. As soon as they got close to the corridor, they heard quite a few more than two voices. He peered around the corner and saw that a group of half a dozen Hufflepuffs, led by Susan Bones, no less, had come to watch, and Potter and Granger were openly explaining to them what they were doing. Draco made a snap decision and just walked toward the group to see what would happen.

Then Potter and Granger started moving. They were fast—both of them. Draco wouldn’t want to connect with one of those fists. (Of course, the thing to do would be to not let them get close enough.) That would explain their speed and precision on a broom, perhaps, but not Potter’s intuitive flying skills. Could he really be just that good?

When they stopped moving after a couple of minutes, Draco noticed more than a few eyes falling questioningly on him and Theo.

“So what is this, your dance class?” Theo said; then he laughed at his own joke, but no one else did.

Potter stopped where he was and stared Theo down. It was a wary, almost predatory stare—or that’s how it seemed after seeing him fly. “Is there a problem, Mr. Nott?” he asked politely.

Draco nudged Theo with an elbow. Fortunately, they were standing close enough that the action would be hard to spot.

“Just watching, Mr. Potter,” Theo said. Draco nodded his agreement. And he watched them very carefully. He may have been a pureblood, but he was well-read, and this wasn’t just a muggle skill. He had seen magical photographs of Japanese wizards from families two thousand years old practising these kinds of moves, though usually with a wand or staff. But, being (allegedly) raised by muggles, he wondered if Potter even knew that.

And, more pressingly, what did he and his sister think they were doing? Not flaunting their skill to intimidate, nor hiding it to keep it in reserve. If Potter was so politically savvy, what had Aunt Andromeda told him about this?

Something about Harry Potter definitely didn’t make sense.

Potter and Granger broke it off to go down to dinner. And Draco and Theo again followed at a distance, discussing what they had seen in hushed whispers. Theo thought that Potter and Granger were just being careless, which was admittedly a possibility. But the thought crossed Draco’s mind (though he did his best to dismiss it) that the martial arts could be a distraction. If they weren’t hiding that, were they hiding something else?

He started formulating a plan, deciding on the safest way to give Potter another small prod. He considered the possible outcomes as he walked, just like his father always told him. The worst that could happen—if he was careful—would be that Snape would have to bail him out and dock a couple of points. The best case scenario…well, he could really nail Potter if he was lucky, but it would be a long shot. Yes, he thought it would be a good chance to take.

When he got to the Great Hall, he waved off Theo and quickly retrieved Crabbe and Goyle from the Slytherin Table and filled them in on what he had seen. Then, he walked around, for the second time that day, to the Gryffindor Table.

“So, Potter, you learnt to fight like a muggle?” he said with a practised sneer as he approached the scar-faced boy. “Sounds like a waste of time to me. Why would you bother?” He saw Granger turn pink at his words, and Weasley bristled across the table. Potter slowly stood up to face him.

Harry knew he should really tread carefully around Draco Malfoy, but anytime someone started talking about muggles like that around him, it was really starting to tick him off. “Why shouldn’t I, Mr. Malfoy?” he said, stepping up the sarcasm. “You keep a pair of bodyguards like a muggle.”

“I could take you anytime with a wand, Potter,” Malfoy snapped. “I’ll do it tonight if you want—wands at midnight—that is, if you’re brave enough to have a proper wizard’s duel—that’s wands only, no contact. I assume you know about duelling, Potter?”

“Of course he does,” Ron said, springing to his feet. “I can be your second if Hermione doesn’t want to. I know a few good spells.”

Harry, Hermione, and Malfoy all gave him a brief, confused look, and Harry held up a hand. “It’s cool, Ron. Hermione, you know the school rules better than I do,” he said rhetorically, “Is that actually allowed?”

“Well, since there’s supposed to be no magic in the halls and no going out after curfew—no. The school’s required to allow honour duels, but they have to be supervised by a professor.”

“Right, and since there was no formal grievance issued, unless you care to name one, Mr. Malfoy, I think this would qualify as either an exhibition duel or an informal duel, which I’m guessing would both fall under Professor Quirrell’s discretion.”

“Correct, Mr. P-Potter.” They all jumped as Quirrell himself appeared seemingly out of nowhere beside them. He still hadn’t shaken that stutter when he said Harry’s name. “And I am highly inclined to permit only public exhibition duels. There’s not much point to having a duel in a school setting if others can’t learn from it. Perhaps in the Great Hall in the free period after dinner, Mr. Malfoy?”

This wasn’t one of the possibilities Draco had thought of. How in Merlin’s name had Quirrell got here from the High Table so fast? But he could think on his feet. He recalculated the odds and went for it. “Fine by me, Professor. So what’ll it be, Mr. Potter? I still say I could take you with a wand.”

“Oh, I suspect you could, Mr. Malfoy. In fact, I’d be surprised if you hadn’t had some special training in the subject. However, you do realise, don’t you, that since you issued the challenge, I would be within my rights to call “no wands,” which would give me the advantage with my muggle training? Either way, it doesn’t really sound like a fair fight.”

Draco turned up his nose a hair, doing his best to mask his astonishment that Potter had just admitted to having inferior magic skills. A muggle duel, though? Could he shame Potter out of—? No, Potter had proved more than once today that he was smarter than that. “Well, I wouldn’t want to be unfair,” he said with a slightly mocking grin. “I guess we’ll just have to settle this on the Quidditch Pitch, instead.”

“I guess we will,” Harry said with a grin.

“Sorry to bother you, Professor. I don’t believe we have a dispute at the moment,” Malfoy added.

As Malfoy and Quirrell both walked away, Hermione let out an exasperated sigh. “Really, Harry, that’s three times he’s tried to get a rise out of you today. What’s he doing?”

“Probably seeing if he can get me in trouble,” Harry replied. “I mean come on, an after-hours duel in the corridors? Who would buy that?”

“I don’t know. He seems smarter than that. Maybe he’s testing you.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter, does it? He won’t learn anything really important.”

“Not if you’re careful,” she warned. She dropped the matter and, as she often wound up doing, spooned some vegetables onto Harry’s plate.

“I still would’ve been your second,” Ron muttered.

“Ron, do you even know what a second does?” Hermione asked.

“Well, a second’s there to take over if you die.”

“No, Ron, a second is there to make sure nobody cheats.”

“What, seriously? I’m gonna kill Fred.”

“You know, I hate to admit it, but Malfoy’s kind of right,” a voice came from behind them. Harry and Hermione turned around and saw Su Li looking over her shoulder from the Ravenclaw Table. “I’ve seen plenty of martial arts, and they aren’t going to stop anyone with a wand.” Some of the other Ravenclaws nodded—some of the majority with whom they hadn’t had this conversation yet.

“Yeah, we know that,” Harry defended himself. “We’re going to switch to duelling when we get the chance. Right now, we’re mostly just staying in shape.”

“Well, just be careful around Malfoy,” said Mandy Brocklehurst. “Daphne Greengrass says he’s been training in magic since he was nine.”

“Sure. Will do, Mandy,” Harry replied. Of course, he thought to himself, I’ve been training in magic since I was seven.

“Harry, are you sure about this?”

“Mione, Hagrid said Snape and my mum were friends in school. We don’t really have any other connection to each other. He’s got to be offering condolences for her death. What else could ‘I regret absence’ mean?”

It was Friday again, and that meant Double Potions with the Slytherins. Hermione was even more nervous than last week, since Harry seemed determined to reply to their professor’s supposed message.

“I’m still not convinced there was a message at all,” she told him.

“Malfoy seemed to think so. And he’s the super-politically-trained kid. Besides, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Professor Snape could give you detention for your “cheek.” And you get to explain it to Mum and Dad if he does.”

“Fine, but he’s not going to,” Harry said confidently as they entered the Potions classroom.

“Today, you will be attempting to brew the Half-Watch Awakening Potion,” Professor Snape said coldly. “Do read the instructions carefully, and try not to have any…mishaps.” He glared at Ron and Neville. “Open your books to page nine and begin…Yes, Mr. Potter.”

“Professor, I had a question about last week’s potion,” Harry said innocently.

The already cool dungeon seemed to chill a few degrees. Ron Weasley started making a small noise, trying to hint that Harry should back down. Now. Theo Nott and Crabbe and Goyle on the Slytherin side of the room started grinning at what they thought was about to happen, but Draco Malfoy’s eyes narrowed as he watched closely. Everyone else was watching closely, too, waiting to see what would happen to the Gryffindor who dared to question Snape. For his own part, Snape merely cocked a single eyebrow.

“I read in one of my cousin’s books on healing that many healing potions contain…agrimony,” Harry said, almost truthfully, “but we didn’t use it last week. Why wasn’t it suitable for the Boil-Curing Potion?”

Severus Snape paused and regarded the boy. Could this just be a coincidence? But no, if anyone would have asked that for its own sake, it would have been Granger. Oh, yes, he had been watching Harry Potter closely these past two weeks, and he had to admit now that what he saw was not what he expected. True, he knew of the boy’s past—the abuse and the adoption by, by all accounts, a very good family—but it was hard to look at that face and that hair and not see his father. But when Potter showed up at the first class decently prepared, it had been a wakeup call. And then, as he witnessed twice and heard a third time how Potter had verbally slipped his way out of being baited by Draco—something that was starting to seem like an unwise move on Draco’s part—he was forced to conclude that this was not James Potter. Nor, again, was he Lily Evans, though he was unmistakably the son of both, and this sealed it. There was no reason for the boy to know the Language of Flowers off the top of his head, although his studious sister might have caught it. To even think to look for a coded message in Snape’s questions was something only James would do, but to actually take the time to reply—that was pure Lily. She had truly given him more than her beautiful green eyes.

“Excellent question, Mr. Potter,” Snape said.

Several of the Slytherins’ jaws dropped, and the Gryffindors covered their mouths to stifle a gasp. Ron had a small coughing fit. Neville froze like a deer in headlamps, and Lavender and Parvati both let out a small squeak.

But Snape ignored all this. “Agrimony is an excellent medicinal plant for internal ailments,” he explained, almost pleasantly. “However, the Boil-Curing Potion is a topical treatment, and, as such, the nettles in the potion can serve the same purpose and also help the cream to be absorbed into the skin…Well, it’s good to see that some students are taking an early interest in the principles of potion design…” He paused for emphasis and smiled inwardly at the reaction he was about to get. “Two points to Gryffindor.”

Almost the entire class gasped openly. Pansy Parkinson and Millicent Bulstrode both shouted a loud, “What!” Lavender Brown fainted, and Neville nearly did, too. A single token point to Gryffindor was rare enough for Snape, but two was completely unheard of.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said quietly.

Snape just nodded slightly. “Miss Patil, please take Miss Brown to the Hospital Wing,” he said offhandedly. “The rest of you—if you’re finished gawking—get back to work.”

There was a scrambling of books and potions supplies. A very surprised Hermione leaned over to her brother and whispered, “I can’t believe that worked.” Harry just smiled.

He did notice, though, even after everyone else got over the shock, that Draco Malfoy was staring at him suspiciously for most of the period.

In the meantime, Snape patrolled the classroom as usual, thinking this was turning out to be a surprisingly good day. And James said he wouldn’t know a good prank if it bit him on the arse.

Parvati Patil did not return to class that morning. It emerged later that Madam Pomfrey thought she had gone mad when she said Snape had given two points to Gryffindor, and had kept her under observation until the word began to spread at lunch.

Harry quickly noticed that the whispers about him he returned to a level he hadn’t heard since his first day at Hogwarts. He seemed to have started a new legend or two about the Boy-Who-Lived.

“Yeah, Seeker, that’s what I heard.”

“They say he pulled off a perfect Wronski Feint, and he’d never even been on a broom.”

“That’s impossible! Not even Harry Potter could get two points out of Snape.”

It was annoying but, Harry found, not as annoying as before. At least he was being whispered about for things that he’d actually done. It didn’t help though that Fred and George Weasley came up to him at lunch and started singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow.” From the way Snape was glaring down at the Gryffindor Table, Harry was sure he was about to take those two points back, and then some. Luckily, Percy came over and told them to quiet it down, but then they dropped to their knees and exclaimed, only half-mockingly, “Oh, great Lord Potter!”

“That was the most epic prank we have seen in all our time at Hogwarts,” Fred continued.

“Including all the ones we pulled,” George added.

“Will you grant us the boon of explaining how in the name of Merlin’s Y-fronts you did that?” Fred finished.

“Um, sorry guys, I don’t really think it’s my place to say,” Harry replied. “I just talked to him.”

“Mm-hmm. I’m still surprised it worked myself, but Harry was just being polite,” Hermione added.

“Being polite to Snape!” Fred said, leaping to his feet.

His twin followed suit. “We could never pull that off, even if we tried.”

“He is truly out of our league, brother.”

“We bow to your skill…for now.” They both bowed low at the waist and returned to their seats, undoubtedly to plot how they could possibly one-up Harry Potter.

“Don’t mind them,” Ron said. “You know they’re always like that—I still don’t get how you did it, though.”

That was about how things were like all day. Between beating Malfoy at flying and winning two points from Snape, Harry had been turned into the hero of Gryffindor—hopefully not for very long. It was hard enough being the Boy-Who-Lived, after all. But it was as they were leaving from lunch that Harry and Hermione got their biggest surprise when they heard a very calm voice call out behind them, “Mr. Potter?”

They turned around and saw, of all people, Draco Malfoy, standing alone.

Neither of them had got into the habit of reaching for their wands yet when something so unexpected happened, largely because they were still trying to catch up with wands in Charms Class, but they were both put on high alert—they could both feel the magic crackling at each other’s fingertips, though Malfoy probably couldn’t.

“Yes, Mr. Malfoy?” Harry replied.

“What’s going on with you and Professor Snape?” he asked quietly. His calm did little to remove the deadly seriousness from his voice.

“What do you mean?”

“He says asphodel and wormwood, you say agrimony, and he gives you two points. I know the Language of Flowers, Mr. Potter, and my father’s known Snape for years. What was that about?”

“It’s a personal matter,” said Harry. “It’s not my place to say. You can try asking him if you want.”

Malfoy’s face darkened. “You’re really going to keep us in the dark about this, Potter? I should think Slytherin has some right to know since he’s our head of house.”

By this point, Harry had had about enough of the prying. He stood up as straight as possible and tried to make himself sound as authoritative as an eleven-year-old could: “Mr. Malfoy, this is a private matter between the House of Snape and the Noble House of Potter. I am respecting Professor Snape’s obvious intent of not publicising the details. I hope you will also respect that intent. Good afternoon.” He turned and walked away. Malfoy didn’t follow.

Hermione looked at her brother in awe as they left. “Harry, did you just pull rank?”

“I think Cousin Andi called it “familial privilege,” but yeah, I guess. It’s good to know being a lord is good for something around here,” he said with a small grin.

Dear Father and Mother,

I ’m sure you have heard that I was extremely fortunate to be chosen as the Slytherin Quidditch Team Seeker (pending paperwork), due to events involving the Gryffindors barely being able to put together a team. Unfortunately, these events also resulted in Potter being chosen as the Gryffindor Seeker, and, more to the point, he’s actually good at it—good enough that he’ll be a serious challenge in the first match.

Potter swears he ’s never been on a broom before, but he looks like he’s been flying for years. Weasley already compared him with his brother, Charlie. Potter acted like he didn ’t even know how good he was. He claimed muggle sports gave him the skill, but he’s so far ahead of Granger that I suspect it’s at most half-true. I doubt he’s cheating—not even McGonagall would allow that—but there’s got to be more to it.

That ’s not the only thing about Potter that doesn’t make sense. I can confirm that he is definitely a Gryffindor. He stands up for his allies, and he’s not afraid of getting in a little trouble. But he’s also smart—too smart to bait easily, and even if he weren’t, the Professors are sticking too close to him to do it. And if Potter is smart, everyone says Granger is even smarter—smarter than any muggle-born has any business being, but, supposedly, she’s now claiming relation to the Fawley Family. The Ravenclaws say they’re both strangely behind in Charms, though.

Potter and Granger have both been carefully evasive about their claimed life in the muggle world, but they ’ve both publicly demonstrated advanced knowledge of muggle fighting techniques. I ’m not even sure if they were being careless or making a statement. It looked like it could even be a misdirection, but I don’t know for what.

But today was the strangest part: Potter and Professor Snape appear to be sending coded messages to each other. Last week, Professor Snape asked Potter about asphodel and wormwood. I wasn ’t sure if it meant anything, but today, Potter asked him about agrimony, and he gave two points to Gryffindor for it. Neither of them would tell me what it was about. Potter even said it was a private matter between their houses, with the correct formula. If you know of something going on between them, I hope you ’ll tell me. I’m trying to put together a useful picture of Potter, but he’s done a good job at hiding all the important pieces.

Your loving son,

Draco

P.S. Nothing on Dumbledore so far. Potter ’s been working a lot closer with McGonagall, at least in public, and I haven’t seen any problems between them.

The Daily Prophet

Monday, 15 September 1991

POTTER VERSUS MALFOY!

New Quidditch Rivalry Brewing At Hogwarts

By Rita Skeeter

It is a little-known fact that if a House Quidditch team at Hogwarts cannot field a full team, tryouts are opened up to first years students in hopes of filling the vacancy. That has happened this year as, after the graduation of their excellent Seeker, Charlie Weasley, the Gryffindor Team had no tryouts for Seeker.

Reports at Hogwarts say that not one, but two first-years performed well enough in Seeker tryouts to join their House Quidditch Teams: Harry Potter of Gryffindor, the Boy-Who-Lived, and Draco Malfoy of Slytherin, son of leading conservative Wizengamot member and Hogwarts Board member Lucius Malfoy.

“My wife and I are very proud of our son for making the team in his first year, and we thank the Hogwarts staff for allowing him the opportunity. We naturally were not surprised, of course, since Draco has been playing Quidditch with his friends from an early age and has shown a particular aptitude for the Seeker position,” Lord Malfoy’s Office said in a press statement. Representatives for Lord Potter;s Office could not be reached for comment.

But the real surprise of the tryouts was, of course, that Harry Potter competed at all. According to reports, the Boy-Who-Lived initially showed his Seeker skills in a dispute with Mr. Malfoy over a friend ’s Remembrall, leading Gryffindor Head and Deputy Headmistress Minerva McGonagall to encourage him to join the tryouts. Being raised by muggles, Potter claimed to have never flown on a broom before, yet he apparently showed an instant talent for flying and narrowly edged out Malfoy in the tryouts.

This show of skill, however, raises some questions. Was Harry Potter telling the truth about never having flown before? Was he perhaps given a better broom than the other students to make the tryouts? And why did no older students try out for the Gryffindor Seeker in the first place? Was it simply because of the gap left by Charlie Weasley, or was it secretly orchestrated by the school staff in order to give Potter a chance to compete? And could Lucius Malfoy, with influence on the Board of Governors, possibly have been involved with the plan?

However it happened, the rivalry between the two Seekers has already become fierce, with several tense confrontations reported between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, and between Gryffindor and Slytherin Houses in general. The first true test of both Seekers’ skills will come on 9 November when Gryffindor faces Slytherin in the first Quidditch match of the Hogwarts season, and, if the rumours are to be believed, both Potter and Malfoy will be flying on new Nimbus Two Thousand brooms. The results of the match are sure to be much anticipated, and the Prophet will provide full coverage.

“Oh, come on!” Harry complained. “Can’t she get anything right?”

“Well, it is Rita Skeeter,” Hermione observed. “I don’t think she’s really trying to.”

“My Gran can’t stand her,” said Neville. “When I was little, she ran a piece on my parents, and…well…it didn’t end well.” He shuddered as he remembered his grandmother’s temper on that day.

“I can’t believe she’d accuse me of cheating to get on the team, though,” Harry said. “I’d better write Cousin Andi so she can clear it up.”

“Hey, it’s not so bad,” Ron told him. “All you gotta do is beat Malfoy in the first match, and then everyone will know how good you are.”

Harry smirked at that. Beating Draco Malfoy was something he’d be all too happy to do. The one consolation of the morning was that the blond Slytherin was also loudly complaining about Rita Skeeter casting aspersions on his father. It was good to know that the woman was at least an equal-opportunity offender.

“Just try not to worry about the paper too much,” Hermione insisted. “People are going to believe what they want to believe either way. Come on, let’s look at Mum and Dad’s letter.”

Dear Harry and Hermione,

Congratulations to Harry for making the Quidditch team! We ’re sure we were just as surprised as everyone else that you did so well your first time on a broom. We guess the karate really did pay off, along with your other skills. Of course, your mother ’s going to worried sick about it now. Quidditch still doesn’t sound very safe to us. She was hoping she could at least wait a year before she had to worry about that. Good luck on the first match, but be careful, and stay out of trouble. We know how sports rivalries can get even in the muggle world.

We ’re proud of you both for handling that Draco Malfoy so well. He sounds like he’s just as much trouble as Cousin Andi said. You should probably keep an eye out in case he tries to cause any more trouble, especially with the Quidditch match.

Hermione, good job with those Switching Spells. We ’re glad to see you’re doing just as well in a magic school as a muggle one. Keep up the good work. That goes for you, too, Harry.

That sounded kind of strange about Professor Snape. It was nice of him to tell you that message, but we wonder why he did it like that, too, especially since it surprised so many people. Maybe he ’d explain it in a more private setting? Anyway, it’s good that he’s not being too hard on you when so many people say he’s unfair.

We ’re glad to see you’re settling in so well after two weeks, and it sounds like you’re making good friends.We hope the rest of the year goes just as well.

Missing you both,

Mum and Dad

Professor Quirrell came into Defence Class that day with a stern look on his face. Most of the class was puzzled to see that he was carrying several pieces of wood, about twelve inches square and three quarters of an inch thick. Harry eyed him suspiciously, wondering just what he was driving at.

“It has come to my attention,” Quirrell said in a low, slightly menacing voice, “that Mr. Harry P-Potter and Miss Hermione Granger are well versed in the muggle defensive techniques known as ‘karate’.” Several people nodded. “It has also come to my attention that most of you have dismissed that fact as unimportant—unworthy of much notice.”

The looks on their classmates’ faces said that some of them thought that was a little unfair, but they couldn’t very well deny they were thinking it.

“That is a dangerous way of thinking,” Quirrell said sharply. Several people flinched. “If you dismiss a threat before you fully understand it, you will put yourselves in serious danger. I myself was not particularly familiar with this “karate,” but I have done some research into it, and I discovered something interesting…” Quirrell made another of his little zoned-out pauses and jerked back into motion. “Mr. P-Potter and Miss Granger, please come forward.”

Hermione and Harry glanced at each other and went to the front of the room. Quirrell then held up one of the boards for the class to see.

“Mr. P-Potter, do you recognise this?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied coolly.

“What is it?”

“It’s the same kind of board we use in karate practice at home.”

“And is it solid wood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good.” Quirrell held the board in front of him by its edges. “Now, without using your wand…break this board in half.”

A couple of people giggled. The board looked far too solid to do that with one’s bare hands. Harry continued to stare at the Defence Professor suspiciously, but he took his stance, measured the distance, and punched the board hard. It clove in two instantly. People gasped around the room. Susan Bones started scribbling notes.

“Miss Granger, the same,” Quirrell said, holding up a second board. “I want to make it clear that this is not just a special power of the Boy-Who-Lived.” He glanced at Harry with what Harry was sure was a small smirk.

Hermione took her stance and also snapped her board with ease. A couple of people applauded.

Then Quirrell faced the class again. “Now,” he said, “that was a very common demonstration of the art. There are quite a few muggles who are capable of doing the same thing.” He held up another board. “Would anyone else like to try breaking one of these boards?”

Harry’s and Hermione’s heads both snapped to look at Quirrell in surprise. That sounded like a really bad idea. But the professor just said, “Look around.” They saw that about half of the other students’ hands were raised, including most of the Gryffindors’ and Zacharias Smith’s, among other Hufflepuffs.” “What do you notice?”

Several hands started to sink in confusion, but no one had an answer.

“None of your other muggle-raised classmates raised their hands,” he said. “Think about that. This is a muggle defence technique. Do they know something you don’t?” All of the other hands went down now. “In order to properly assess threats, it is important to be aware of when your opponent may have different information than you and to consider what their motives are. It is a mistake to underestimate your opponent because what they do looks confusing, and it is also a mistake to underestimate them because what they do looks easy. Miss Granger, would you care to explain why your fellow muggle-raised classmates were so reticent?”

“You have to know how to strike the wood properly, Professor,” Hermione replied without hesitation. “If you hit it at the wrong angle, you could break your hand.”

“Correct,” Quirrell said. There were murmurs from the class at this revelation. “And since sending someone to the hospital wing with a broken hand would reflect rather poorly on my performance, we will not be having any more board breaking in this class. In any case, it is not a particularly useful skill against someone who has a wand.” And at this, Quirrell held up his own wand and faced Harry across the open space at the front of the classroom. “Miss Granger, you may sit down. Mr. P-Potter, what useful skills would you say you have gained from studying karate?”

Harry kept a close eye on Quirrell’s wand and laid a hand on the handle of his own as he answered, “Well, strength, endurance, and reflexes, I suppose, sir.”

“I see. I’m aware that some of your year-mates have seen your reflexes on the training grounds. I wonder if they would serve you as well at dodging spells.”

“Sir?” Harry tensed up.

“Nothing serious, of course, just some mild Stinging Jinxes.”

“Professor—!” Harry started, but before he could say another word, Quirrell pointed his wand at him and, without speaking, a small ball of white light shot out of it and raced toward Harry at high speed. He barely jumped out of the way in time.

“Professor—!” he tried again. But another ball of light was already racing toward him. This one connected with his arm, feeling like a hard slap. “Ow! Professor—” He dove to the side. “Is this an approved lesson plan?” he demanded as he rolled and started dodging faster.

“At some point, I believe the only way to learn is by doing,” Quirrell said lightly as he kept shooting Stinging Jinxes. Several people started laughing at Harry’s predicament…including his own sister, though she hid it behind her hands. He’d get her back later. Meanwhile, Quirrell kept firing faster and faster, and Harry was sure he saw he face contort into an evil glare for an instant. Only after firing off about twenty spells, all but two of which Harry dodged, did Quirrell stop.

“Excellent dodging skills,” he said. “Two points to Gryffindor. You may sit down, now.”

Harry took his seat, red-faced, but things only got worse when Zacharias Smith spoke up and said, “Well of course he’s going to be good. He made Seeker.”

One of Professor Quirrell’s eyebrows slowly rose until it nearly disappeared under his purple turban. With a sudden lurch, he said, “Mr. Smith, I believe you’re a bit of a Quidditch player yourself. Is that right?”

“Yes, Professor,” the boy said smugly. “I’ve played Chaser in the Junior League since I was eight.”

“Well, then, do you think you could put your dodging skill up against your classmates, Mr. P-Potter notwithstanding, of course?” Zacharias turned a little paler, but Quirrell egged him on: “Come, now. Dodging drills are fairly common in the upper-year Defence curriculum. It can’t hurt to get some extra practice in, can it?”

Zacharias smiled weakly and rose from his seat. “I suppose not, Professor.” He walked down to the front of the room and took his place opposite the professor, who immediately started firing spells. The boy started dodging, and while quite a few Stinging Jinxes did hit him, it was clear that he was still pretty good, and Quirrell confirmed this when he finished by saying, “Not bad Mr. Smith. For those of you who weren’t counting—” He glanced at Hermione and Harry. “—that was fourteen out of twenty.” But Harry was sure Quirrell hadn’t fired his spells as fast as Zacharias as at him.

The boy returned to his seat, apparently content with what his fellow Hufflepuffs considered an admirable showing.

But Professor Quirrell gave a knowing smile and said, “Miss Granger…would you please come forward again.”

Hermione turned very pale and started trembling slightly, suddenly wishing she were anywhere but here. But Harry elbowed her in the side and whispered, “You have to go.” It looked like she was going to get some payback sooner than he thought.

“The general consensus is that Miss Granger here could only be considered average on a broom,” Quirrell explained. Hermione’s cheeks turned pink. “This is to demonstrate that these skills are not necessarily a result of conventional athletics.” And without another word, he started casting spells at Hermione.

Truthfully, Harry was too concerned with Professor Quirrell’s behaviour to really enjoy seeing Hermione get the same treatment he had. Besides, taunting his sister was supposed to be his job alone. But as it happened, everyone could now see what Harry already knew: while Hermione Granger might not be that steady on a broom, she was certainly quick and light on her feet. At the end, when Quirrell called her score as fifteen out of twenty, she sat down looking a little better about the experience in front of an annoyed Zacharias Smith.

“So what do you think of Professor Quirrell now?” Harry demanded once the class let out and they started down for lunch.

“Well, I guess he’s…unorthodox,” Hermione said tentatively.

“Unorthodox? Hermione, he’s evil,” Harry hissed in a harsh whisper.

She rolled her eyes. “Harry, he’s not evil.”

“You didn’t see his face when he was shooting spells at me. He was really out to get me.” He stopped and let the rest of the group go on ahead of them.

“You’re being paranoid. It was probably just because you were so good at dodging.”

“I’m not being paranoid. It wasn’t very nice of him to call us out like that in the first place. I’m gonna ask cousin Andi if that’s really an allowed lesson.”

“He was just demonstrating a point, and we were the two best people to do it. I know you don’t like being the Boy-Who-Lived, but you can’t very well say you’re not out of the ordinary.”

Harry grumbled. “You didn’t have to laugh at me about it, though.”

“Well it was kind of funny.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.”

“Was not.”

“Was too,” she insisted. “You looked pretty silly dodging Quirrell’s spells like that.”

“I did better than you.”

“Still looked silly.”

“You’re asking for it, sis,” he said with a grin. Magic crackled around his fingertips, and Hermione backed away, cautiously readying her own hands. They’d both been known to throw weak wandless Stinging Jinxes at each other at home once in a while (to their parents’ dismay), but they could still hear footsteps in the corridor, so with a look from Hermione, Harry backed down, and they quietly snuck away.

Harry and Hermione made a beeline for the library after classes ended for the day, partly because of Hermione’s insatiable study habits and partly because it was someplace they could speak in relative privacy. There was always a little something to talk about, like the latest newspaper article or letters from their family. Cousin Andi had promised to send some confidential stationary charmed for their parents next weekend, so that would need to wait a little longer. The children felt a little bad for cutting her out of the loop like that, but Harry’s animagus ability was still too secret to involve anyone else, according to Professor McGonagall.

They talked and did homework for a while until there was a noise at the door, and a gang of first-years in blue-trimmed robes came into the library. The Ravenclaws had just got out of their afternoon classes. A blond girl surveyed the room, spotted them, and quickly approached the table. “Hi, I was hoping I’d see you here,” she said eagerly.

“Hi, Mandy, what’s up?” Hermione asked.

“Well, we heard at lunch when you were talking about Professor Quirrell’s lesson today, and it turns out he gave us the same one.”

“He did?” they both said in surprise.

“Does someone in Ravenclaw know karate?” Hermione asked.

“No, Su Li knows a little bit of—I think it’s called “kung fu,’” Mandy Brocklehurst replied. “Anyway, Professor Quirrell had her do the board breaking thing, and then he started shooting Stinging Jinxes at her.”

Harry groaned. “He did?”

“Yeah, but that’s not the best part—he made Draco Malfoy do it, too, because he’s supposed to be the best Quidditch player in the class.”

Hermione started sniggering. “He did?”

“Yeah, except he didn’t stop at twenty. He said something about how Malfoy shouldn’t make fun of muggle fighting, and he just kept firing spells until he tripped and fell on his face!”

Harry and Hermione both laughed out loud. “He didn’t!” Harry exclaimed.

“He did!”

“Did Malfoy threaten to tell his father?”

“Of course. But Quirrell would have to do a lot worse for them to fire him before exams. It’s hard to find Defence Professors anymore.”

“You see, Harry?” Hermione nudged him. “Anyone who can take Malfoy to task can’t be all bad.”

Harry rolled his eyes. He wasn’t sure he’d go that far, although he did wish he could have seen Malfoy get taken down a peg like that.

Later that afternoon, Su Li came out to join Harry and Hermione for their karate practice. She taught them some of her basic kung fu forms, and they taught her some basic karate forms, but since it was the preparation for duelling, that was really important, and they didn’t spend much time learning each other’s styles. Even so, Su came fairly regularly to practice with them after that, having been inspired to practice more just to stay in shape. A few other people were interested enough in Professor Quirrell’s lesson to get the three of them to teach them a few moves, but none of them became regulars (although Neville Longbottom, to their surprise, did keep showing up once a week or so).

Dear Auntie,

There are some things I ’ve been meaning to tell you, except I wasn’t sure how to explain them. I don’t really understand everything myself, but they’ve got me thinking.

I saw Harry Potter and his sister, Hermione Granger, practising a type of muggle defence called “karate”—at least, I think that’s how it’s spelt. I don’t quite follow it, but it looks like a lot of punching and kicking, except in special patterns. It’s supposed to be more popular in Asia. I didn’t think much of it at first, but Professor Quirrell made them demonstrate it in class today, and they broke through thick boards with their bare hands! He made them show how their training made them the fastest kids in the class, and they were really good at dodging spells. Now, everyone’s says that’s how Harry got so good at Quidditch.

I know you know a lot about defence and combat and things like that from the war, but I was wondering if you ever looked at this karate or anything like it. It looks really powerful, even though it doesn ’t use a wand, so it might be useful in some way. Harry and Hermione say they learnt it for early training to get better at duelling later.

The other thing is, I ’ve been talking to Justin and Sophie—they’re muggle-borns in Hufflepuff in my year—and it’s really weird how they never knew about the war until this summer, even weirder than not knowing about magic. None of the muggle-borns are afraid to say You-Know-Who’s name or anything. It’s really disturbing. I mean, I guess it’s not bad —not really. You-Know-Who ’s gone—except Professor Dumbledore doesn’t think so. But it’s just that they don’t know any different, and they actually think it’s silly to be afraid to say his name. But all that ’s because they’ve only known about the magical world for a few months.

Harry and Hermione said they first learnt about magic years ago, around the first time they did accidental magic, and Justin and Sophie said they wished they ’d done, too, because it would have made things a lot easier for them. And I was thinking about it, and I was wondering, why wouldn’t it be better to contact all the muggle-borns when they first did accidental magic? It would be a lot easier to keep track of them and keep the Statute of Secrecy because if they start doing accidental magic, and their parents don’t know what it is, they start asking questions. Justin says his parents kept calling muggle priests and doctors until he got his Hogwarts letter. I don’t know if there’s any way to make that happen or even if it’s a good idea, but it makes more sense to me, so maybe it’s worth thinking about.

Love,

Susan

From the mouths of babes, she thought. Amelia Bones read her niece’s letter with great interest. Both of those points had crossed her mind at times over the years, but she never paid them much attention. Now, seeing Susan point out the same things after just a couple of weeks of being in class with Harry Potter made her reevaluate them. The one about accidental magic was really rather obvious when she thought about it, and definitely worthy of careful consideration. It was just hard even for her to break out of her preconceived notions to think about it that way.

Of course, it couldn’t happen right away. They were having enough trouble already with the Muggle Protection Act, and too much too fast would scare the moderates away. It would be a long-term goal rather than a short-term one, but, she suspected, a good one.

Dear Mum, Dad, and Ginny,

Can you believe Harry Potter got picked to be Seeker on the Quidditch team? I couldn ’t believe his flying even when I saw it! I helped him out with the basics, but he learnt it really fast. He didn’t really fly like Charlie, though. He just dove for the snitch really fast. I don’t know how that’ll work in an actual game, but I think it’d be hard for even Charlie to make catches like that. I really hope he beats Malfoy. I can’t stand that git. He even tried to challenge Harry to a duel, but I guess he talked his way out instead. Anyway, we really need to beat Slytherin to win the Quidditch Cup.

Did you hear about Snape? Snape actually gave Harry two points! I still don ’t know how he did that one. Fred and George said he used dark magic to cancel out Snape’s nastiness, but I think they were joking.

Ginny, I think I like Charms class the best (except Flying). It ’s great finally being allowed to do magic, and that’s where we’ve been casting the most actual spells. Except I keep getting paired up with Neville or Seamus. They’re alright, but Neville’s wand never works right, and Seamus keeps setting things on fire. Defence is pretty cool, too. Quirrell had Harry and Hermione dodging spells and stuff, and I heard he really got Malfoy good in his class. The other classes are just like Bill and Charlie always said.

I gotta go. McGonagall gave us a lot of homework again.

Love,

Ron

Wotcher Harry and Hermione,

Congrats on making the Quidditch team, Harry. I knew you could do it. Mum told me about Snape. She explained it all, and I still don ’t believe it. Even out here, people are saying if Harry Potter can do that, he can do anything . Ha! Sorry, I know that probably bugs you, but I just think it ’s funny.

Hermione, I hear you ’re doing pretty well, too. Teacher’s pet already, I’m sure. Remember to take a break once in a while. Just remember everything I taught you, and you’ll be fine.

Auror training ’s great. It gets really in-depth into a bunch of advanced defence-type subjects. I’m sure I’ll ace Concealment and Disguise—even though Mad-Eye’s giving me a hard time because I still “walk clumsy”—it’ll be a pain in Stealth and Tracking, but everyone else says my disguises are just fine. Being a Metamorph does has its advantages. The only problem is they’re still short-staffed. A lot of them blame Snape for turning out so few Potions N.E.W.T.s. Kinda makes you wonder, but maybe that’s just Snape.

Anyway, I don ’t know how often I’ll be able to write. Mad-Eye’s brilliant, but he’s a real slave-driver. Good luck, and go give Slytherin hell for me.

Dora

Our beloved son,

We are very proud of you for getting onto the Quidditch Team. That was an excellent bit of manoeuvring, and, from what we have heard, very good flying. It is unfortunate that Potter also got onto his house team under suspicious circumstances. Whatever the reason for his miraculous skills, we hope that you will be fully prepared to face him on the Pitch in November.

We can assure you that we know of no relationship between Professor Snape and Potter that would merit a covert message. We fully expected their relationship to be antagonistic and are most surprised by your report. However, Professor Snape operates at many levels, and it is entirely possible that this is part of some plan to which even the House of Malfoy is not privy. As such, you would do well to stay out of his way in such matters, as interference is likely to do more harm than good.

Professor Snape has informed us that he considers you to have overstepped your bounds in your attempts to antagonise Potter. While the outcome of these attempts was acceptable, and they provided useful information, you should be more careful in your dealings with him. With his obvious training, Potter is not to be underestimated. Your chief objective should continue to be information, both about anything Potter or Granger may let slip, and about their interactions with professors and staff.

That Potter is being closely monitored by other professors than Dumbledore is of interest. McGonagall is well-known as the old man ’s lap cat, but Flitwick’s and Quirrell’s special attention are surprising, and we have learnt something else that is far more significant. We tell you this in confidence that you will not speak of it at Hogwarts: Albus Dumbledore is not Harry Potter’s magical guardian. The permission slip to the Board for Harry Potter to join the Quidditch team was signed by Andromeda Tonks. They have not made this public for reasons that are not yet clear, and we also intend to hold it in reserve until an opportune time presents itself to reveal it. However, taken together, these facts suggest either that Dumbledore is purposefully hanging back to mask his involvement, has suddenly become more trusting of his minions, or no longer wields the influence he once did. Keep watch for any clues that may untangle these possibilities.

We have had words with Professor Snape regarding Professor Quirrell ’s unprofessional behaviour. Unfortunately, it would be counterproductive to remove him at this time, but we have made it clear that we expect fairer treatment of students from him.

Father and Mother

Hermione woke up on Thursday morning expecting a long day. In addition to the academic classes, she once again had flying lessons at three-thirty, and Harry had his first Quidditch practice was at seven, which she was planning to watch. So it was no surprise that Harry barely had time to wish her a happy birthday that morning before the mail arrived and started everything off. Two large teams of six owls flew into the Great Hall, each carrying a long, thin parcel, one to the Gryffindor Table and one to the Slytherin Table. Harry’s and Draco Malfoy’s brooms had arrived. It was only Hermione’s quick thinking to grab the parcel that kept the owls from dropping it on the table and tossing food everywhere—one of the disadvantages of Owl Post, she thought. A bout of cursing from the far side of the room told her that the Slytherins had failed to do the same.

Mum and Dad had sent Hermione a book and some sweets for her birthday, and the Tonkses had sent her a charm bracelet that was charmed to glow in the dark, but she sighed as it seemed like that was the only recognition she was going to get all day. She’d mentioned when her birthday was to her roommates, but they didn’t seem to remember, and Harry (and all of the boys, for that matter) was preoccupied with his new racing broom all day.

In fact, Harry was so distracted that it made things a good deal more difficult than usual in Charms. It was hard enough to begin with learning to cast the Softening Charm without melting their wood blocks into pulp. (Thankfully, the Softening Charm was one of a large class of charms that did not work on living beings, or else it could have been quite deadly if misused.) Hermione was also sure that Harry didn’t remember a word that Professor Binns said in History, as he was daydreaming the entire time. (Granted, few people besides her ever did remember a word Professor Binns said.) Now that he was on the Quidditch team, Harry was excused from the flying lessons, ostensibly to free up study time. He would have still come, except that the Nimbus Two Thousands were banned from the lessons due to the risk of him and Malfoy getting into a disastrous Seeker fight, so he told her he’d stay in and watch the training grounds from the library until she finished.

After dinner, Hermione did head out to the Quidditch Pitch with Harry, where Oliver Wood reviewed the basics of Quidditch and gleefully ran Harry through his paces, repeatedly saying how Gryffindor was assured to win the Quidditch Cup this year. That was a nerve-wracking experience for Hermione. Harry’s Nimbus Two Thousand was much faster than the school brooms. Seeing him zoom around at over a hundred miles an hour, still swerving and diving all over the place, made her want to cover her eyes every other play, not to mention when Wood let one of the bludgers out. She just hoped Hogwarts Quidditch really was as (relatively) injury free as everyone said.

By the time they walked back up to Gryffindor Tower, Harry was in a much better mood than his sister. He was even humming to himself off and on, which only happened anymore when he was having a really good time.

“You okay, Mione?” he asked as they approached the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“Yeah, I guess,” she sighed. “It’s just been a long day.” She didn’t have the heart to tell him the real reason: this was her first birthday away from home—it was hard enough not having their parents there. She was hoping she could get a little more recognition from her brother.

“Well, come on, let’s get inside.” Harry gave the password, and they climbed in through the portrait hole.

“SURPRISE!”

“EEK!” Hermione jumped back so hard that she nearly fell backwards through the portrait hole, and she was so shocked that the fireplace and all of the candles in the room flared violently for a moment before she tamped her magic down, giving the guests a bit of a surprise as well.

Standing in front of Hermione were all of the Gryffindor first years and the entire Quidditch team, surrounding a large cake. She looked back to her brother, wide-eyed, only to see him grinning—appropriately enough—like a Cheshire Cat.

“Harry, you git! You were never in the library at all, were you?” She punched him in the arm and then, before he could react, hugged him tight and fought to keep from crying.

“Come on, like I’d really ignore your birthday, sis,” Harry said.

“Well, you’re a good brother, Harry,” she agreed. “Even if you are a git.” She scratched him behind the ears, but quickly stopped when she heard people smirking at the gesture. It wouldn’t do to have them start asking questions about that.

The guests all sang “For She’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and Hermione cut the cake. Her admiration for her brother was increased further when she saw he had got her an all-dark chocolate cake, something he didn’t really like, even in human form, on account of it being completely inedible to cats.

“Harry, this is wonderful,” she said as she served herself a large slice. “But how did you ever set this up? How did you get the cake in here?”

“I had a little help,” Harry replied, nodding to Fred and George.

Hermione’s fork stopped halfway to her mouth.

“And I made them swear on the honour of the House of Weasley that it wasn’t pranked.”

“He’s a quick one, isn’t he, Georgie?” Fred said.

“He certainly is, Freddie,” George replied. “We’re friends with the kitchen elves, you see. They like to throw parties.”

Hermione smiled and rolled her eyes a little as she took a bite of cake.

The rest of the cake was soon dished out, and as they finished it off, the Quidditch team started a game of Exploding Snap. But before she could join in, she was surprised when Neville came up to her.

“Hey, Hermione,” he said timidly, “I, uh…I got you these.” He gave her a small package, which she unwrapped to find a box of self-inking quills. “I know how much you like to write,” Neville continued. “It’s really a lot easier with these.”

“Oh, thank you, Neville, they’re great,” she replied. She hugged the round-faced boy briefly, causing him to blush furiously.

Before long, Hermione had also received some Sugar Quills from her roommates and Chocolate Frogs from Ron and the Twins, and, finally, Harry approached with his gift.

“I don’t know if you’ll have much use for it, but Cousin Andi gave me some for myself before we came to school, so I wrote her and said you should have some, too,” he said.

Hermione narrowed her eyes in confusion, but opened the present and gasp slightly when she saw it: personalised Wizengamot stationery with “Hermione Jean Granger, Office of Lord Harry James Potter” at the top. It was true, she didn’t really have any reason to use it, (although she wondered if she could get away with writing to Paul and Tiffany with it to mess with their heads), but it was very nice to have.

“Harry, it’s lovely, thank you.” She hugged him again.

With the gift-giving out of the way, the whole party stayed up late playing Exploding Snap until Percy Weasley told them to cut it out with the noise. Hermione heard Harry softly humming to himself for much of the evening.

The days began to pass more quickly. Harry had Quidditch practice three evenings per week, where Oliver Wood acquainted him with the team and drilled all the formations into him. He had been surprised the first time he practised with the real Snitch that he couldn’t sense any magic from it.

“You must have a really keen magic sense to even think of that,” Wood had said, impressed. “Of course, the Snitch is charmed against it—also against Summoning Charms, Levitation Charms, Freezing Charms, and all manner of sabotage. You’ll have to catch it purely with your flying skills.” Harry knew that bit, of course, but the fact that it was possible to mask the Snitch’s magical signature was a new one on him.

Even as Seeker, there was a lot to cover in practice, from feints to distract the opposing Chasers and Beaters to guard formations to protect him on his way to the Snitch. They would need a lot of practice, too, since it quickly leaked that Lucius Malfoy had bought the entire Slytherin Team Nimbus Two Thousands, which meant that unless the Chaser Squad could deliver even better than they thought, it was almost entirely down to Harry to win the match before the point spread got too large.

Back on the ground, the murmurs between Gryffindor and Slytherin rose in anticipation of the first match, still several weeks away. Harry and Malfoy were not the instigators of any serious trouble, but they really didn’t do much to discourage it, either.

Meanwhile, classes slowly stepped up their workload, and it took some effort on Harry’s part to keep Hermione from getting too uptight about it. He reminded her several times that they still had eight more months of the term to go. But soon, it seemed like they barely had time to say hello to Mandy or go have tea with Hagrid, and before they knew it, Halloween was fast approaching. This, of course, was always a solemn time of year for one Harry Potter. He rarely let himself show it in public, but Professor McGonagall, who had become good at reading him over the years, spotted it readily, and the week before the date, she called him and his sister to stay after class one day for a brief chat.

“Mr. Potter, Miss Granger, as you may or may not know, Hogwarts holds a special Halloween Feast every year, a very old tradition dating back to the school’s founding. I believe you’re aware that Halloween has been an important wizarding holiday since the Druidic Era. Now, I’m sure you are aware that this Halloween will be the tenth anniversary of the defeat of V…Voldemort—” It was so hard for her to stay in practice. “…and, of course, your birth parents’ deaths, Mr. Potter.”

Harry and Hermione nodded sadly.

“Being as it is the tenth anniversary, there will likely be a resurgence of the ‘Harry Potter Day’ celebrations throughout Britain, but I want to assure you that we actively discourage such nonsense here and will hold a traditional Halloween feast. However, you may be excused from the feast if you do not wish to attend, and I can have some dinner sent up to you in the Gryffindor Common Room that night.”

At that, Harry and Hermione exchanged a look and cautiously nodded to each other.

“Th-thank you, Professor,” Harry said quietly, “but we usually do celebrate Halloween at home, and…um…mark that day the Sunday after. I think we’ll be okay at the feast.”

Professor McGonagall smiled just slightly. “That’s very gracious of you two. You may, of course, change your mind at any time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Harry said.

“There is one other thing…” she continued. “Because it is the tenth anniversary, if it is alright with you, the Headmaster would like to call a moment of silence at the feast in your parents’ memory.”

Harry’s eyes went wide. He looked to Hermione in a rare moment of real indecision. She laid a hand on his shoulder and whispered that she thought it would be a good thing to do.

“I…I think I would like that,” Harry decided. “Um…please tell him thank you for us.”

“I will, of course.”

It was later that same day, as Harry and Hermione were headed up to the seventh floor to practice karate, that something very different caught Harry’s ear. This was a less travelled part of the castle, and it seemed that they weren’t the only ones who thought so, since a pair of hushed voices was engaged in a heated conversation around the corner of one side hallway. This would happen from time to time, especially with affectionate couples, but it was one phrase Harry heard that made him stop: “Third floor corridor.”

“Harry, what—” Hermione started when she saw him suddenly freeze.

“Shush,” he admonished her.

“What is—”

“Shh!” He motioned for her to come closer and listen.

Peering carefully around the corner for just a moment, they saw two seventh-year Gryffindor boys arguing.

“What, the very painful death Dumbledore told us about?” one of the boys said.

“Yeah, it’s a giant cerberus,” the other one whispered.

“No!”

“Yes!”

“No way, I don’t believe you.”

“I went in there and saw it.”

“You didn’t!”

“Yeah, I did. It only takes an Alohomora to get in.”

“But why would they put something like that on the third floor?”

“There’s a trapdoor in there. It’s guarding something.”

Hermione and Harry stared at each other, remembering their conversation with Hagrid back at the start of term.

“Uh-uh, I still don’t believe you,” the other seventh-year said.

“Then why don’t you go in there yourself and find out?”

“Well, maybe I will. Just have to get past Filch, right?”

At that point, the two children heard a rustle of robes and footsteps heading toward them and fled as quietly as they could up the stairs. It seemed the older Gryffindors were determined to get into trouble. Hermione and Harry kept going until they found an alcove of their own where they could speak privately.

“A cerberus?” Harry whispered incredulously. “Like a three-headed dog?”

“Well, what else would it mean?” Hermione replied.

“But what’s it guarding?” he wondered.

“Harry, you don’t think—the Gringotts break-in?” she stammered.

“I don’t know. And from the way Hagrid acted when we mentioned it, I don’t think anyone’ll be too keen to tell us. But I’ve got a bad feeling they’re related somehow.”

“But Harry, Professor Dumbledore—you don’t think he’d really put a valuable artifact that a dark wizard wants to steal here do you?”

“It’s Dumbledore,” he countered. “I’m not sure I’d put it past him. He’s the one who said how safe Hogwarts is…I wish we had some way of checking it out, though.”

“What! You can’t be thinking of going in there!”

“Of course not! That’d be stupid. Plus, you know how I feel about dogs.”

But for the next couple of days, Harry couldn’t get the thought out of his head. Could the Headmaster really have put whatever valuable thing the Death Eaters supposedly wanted right here in Hogwarts for “safekeeping’? He couldn’t help but keep wondering. And then on Friday afternoon, he got an idea—an idea so simple that he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of it sooner.

“Harry, where are we going?” Hermione demanded as her brother dragged her up the Grand Staircase.

“Hermione, not so loud,” he hissed. “I had an idea about the third floor corridor.”

Hermione’s eyes went wide in horror. “Harry, you mustn’t go in there!” she squeaked. “It’s dangerous—and forbidden. You could get in trouble or eaten or—”

“Shh! Mione, calm down,” he stopped her. “I promise I’m not gonna go inside. I just want to check it out around the door.”

“But what good will that do?”

“I’m going to sniff around and see who’s been around there.”

“Sniff around, but—” It finally dawned on her what her brother intended. “No, you can’t! What if you get caught?”

“That’s why I need you to cover me and be a lookout. Stand at the end of the hall, and if someone comes by, start calling for a lost cat.”

“Harry, I don’t like it—”

“Please? It’ll only take a minute. If we know who’s been going in that corridor, we might be able to figure out what’s going on. If it is the thing from Gringotts, I think we need to know.”

Hermione’s lips pressed together in a thin line, eerily reminiscent of Professor McGonagall, but she couldn’t really deny that bit. “Hmm…alright, but please be careful.”

“When am I ever not careful?” Harry said with a grin.

“Every Quidditch practice,” she replied without hesitation.

Hermione initially suggested they find the nearest broom cupboard for him to transform in, but they couldn’t find one nearby. So instead, they found a little alcove that was out of view of any portraits. Standing just in front of it, Hermione looked around to make sure they were alone, including searching the ceiling for any sign of Peeves.

“Okay, coast is clear,” she whispered, and for the first time since he came to Hogwarts, Harry Potter shrunk down and walked out of the alcove around her legs as a black kitten with white feet.

Harry’s cat form had slowly grown larger in the six years she’d known him, apparently ageing at the human rate. Whereas he had first shown up on the Grangers’ front porch looking like a three-month-old kitten, he could now pass for six or seven months, and it was getting harder to tell by sight that he was still a kitten.

Harry looked again to make sure no one else was around and trotted down the hallway toward the locked door into the Forbidden Corridor. Halfway down, he had to fight the urge to turn around and run for it, but he kept going. When he reached the end, he started carefully sniffing around the door with his excellent feline sense of smell.

Hermione stood at the other end of the hall, watching for any adult who might approach. Everyone knew the Forbidden Corridor was being heavily patrolled by Filch, the caretaker, and that scrawny cat of his, Mrs. Norris, and she didn’t fancy being caught by him anywhere near the place. Her pulse quickened when she heard footsteps approaching from the other direction. Thinking fast, she took a few steps down the hall and called out, “Socks, come back, you can’t go down there. Come back, Socks, come here. Here, kitty, kitty.”

Harry bolted toward her, and she quickly scooped him up in her arms. He turned his face toward her chest so that his obvious white lightning-bolt marking would not be visible. It was only then that Hermione turned around and saw that the footsteps were not made by Filch, but by Professor Sinistra, the Astronomy teacher, who smiled in amusement at her and kept walking.

“Phew, that was close,” she whispered to the kitten in her arms. It always embarrassed Harry a little to be carried around like that, but he’d take that over getting caught any day. She carried him back to the little alcove and set him on the floor. With a quick look around, she whispered, “All clear.”

In a blink, her brother was standing before her on two feet again.

“Socks?” he protested.

“You asked for it, furball,” she smirked at him. “What did you find?”

“A lot of strange stuff,” he said. “Let’s go up to the Common Room. There probably won’t be anyone around this early.”

Hermione eyed Harry sceptically, wondering what he found that he was so hesitant about as he led her back to Gryffindor Tower.

Sure enough, the Common Room was empty, as might be expected at that hour on a Friday, except for a fat, grey rat wandering around at the bottom of the boy’s staircase.

“Is that Ron’s rat?” Hermione asked as they found a pair of comfortable chairs over to the side.

The rat locked eyes with Harry and froze. “Yeah, I think so,” Harry said. A moment later, the rat turned and bolted up the stairs with surprising speed. From the first day, Scabbers always seemed to panic around Harry, as if he could sense he was a predator somehow. He thought the rat’s sense of smell might be good enough to pick up the cat in him, but it seemed a little odd after this much time.

Harry shook his head dismissively. “There’s something not right about that rat,” he said.

Hermione shrugged. “So what did you smell down there?” she demanded.

“Mione,” he whispered intensely, “I smelled a muggle!”

It was a rare thing for Hermione to be struck speechless.

“Mione?”

“That’s impossible. There aren’t any muggles in the school.”

“That’s what I smelled,” Harry insisted.

“But they can’t even get in without an Anti-Anti-Muggle Charm. You must’ve got it wrong.”

“No, I didn’t. You know how good my nose is.”

“Okay, then.” Hermione crossed her arms. “What exactly did you smell?”

Harry sighed. “I smelled a bunch of wizards who’ve been there in the past day or two—most of them were faint, like they were only there for a minute. There were students, mostly older boys, and some teachers, but only a few people have been there a lot. There was one cat that spends a lot of time there—female, about four years old, not spayed—that’ll be Mrs. Norris. Then, there was a man in his fifties who didn’t have magic. I’m sure of it.”

“But who could that be?” Hermione said, just before the answer came to her. There were only seventeen living adults in the school—seven men and ten women, and six of those men were definitely wizards, including Hagrid, even though he wasn’t supposed to do magic. “Oh, that must have been Filch,” she realised.

“Filch?”

“Yes, think about it. He’s always sweeping the floors and stuff by hand. He never uses magic. But he couldn’t be a muggle though…oh, maybe he’s a squib.”

“Maybe,” Harry agreed. “Maybe that’s why he’s so cranky all the time. They say most squibs leave the magical world.”

“That’s got to be it. So had anyone else been in there?”

“Yeah, Professor Dumbledore was in there for a while, and there was a wizard who smelled like he was only half human—I’m pretty sure that was Hagrid.”

“Hagrid!”

“Well, he can’t be all human, can he? He’s eleven feet tall.”

Hermione looked thoughtful, as if that possibility hadn’t even crossed her mind. After a pause, she said, “How do you know it wasn’t Professor Flitwick, then?”

“Flitwick’s older. Plus, the trail smelled like someone…big.”

“But what would Hagrid be doing in there?”

Harry was ready for that one. “Everyone says he like dangerous creatures. Maybe he’s taking care of the dog.”

“So there is a dog.”

“Oh, yeah. The scent is all over the corridor. I almost panicked when I smelled it. I couldn’t tell how many heads it has from outside, but it’s big—like really big—like, at least bear-sized, and maybe bigger.” Hermione covered her mouth with her hands. “Yeah, I don’t know how Mrs. Norris does it. It’s bloody scary being on the other side of the door from it.”

“Language, Harry,” she admonished.

“Sorry. But it is. You couldn’t pay me to go in there.”

“Well that’s good to hear. I looked up Cerberi in the library. They used to be used to guard things a lot, but not so much anymore. I’m not sure why, but that must be what it’s doing. We need to tell someone what’s going on.”

“I don’t know if it would do much good,” Harry countered. “The teachers seem to think it’s fine with just a Colloportus on that door, no matter how many seventh-years go in there.”

“That seems pretty stupid,” Hermione grumbled. “If they keep going in there, it’s only a matter of time before someone gets that “very painful death’…What about Professor Quirrell?” she asked, remembering the Defence Professor’s first lesson.

Harry glared at her.

“Harry, I know you don’t like his methods, but—”

“I don’t trust him,” he cut her off. “There’s something…off about him.”

“Fine,” she huffed. “We’ll do it your way for now. But shouldn’t we at least tell Mum and Dad?”

“Probably. We can say we just overheard people talking about it. Still, there hasn’t been any trouble so far, so maybe it’s not too bad.”

Both children hoped he was right.

On Monday, it rained profusely, but this didn’t stop Quidditch practice. After all, the first match was now less than two weeks away, and Oliver Wood was listed in the dictionary under “fanatic.” This meant that Harry Potter was quite a sight as he traipsed back to Gryffindor Tower, soaked to the bone, covered in mud, and hoping he could get showered in time for dinner. He was certainly not in the mood for…

“Nice, look, Potter. Too bad it’s not gonna help you.”

Harry strongly considered ignoring it and moving on, but the politics of Noble Houses advised at least an acknowledgement. He ground his teeth and turned around to face the dark-haired Slytherin boy.

Theodore Nott grinned smugly at him. “You may be good on your own, but you know Malfoy’s gonna flatten you on the pitch when our team’s got his back. You’re wasting your time out there.”

Harry rolled his eyes. While he was much more subtle than Crabbe or Goyle, it was clear that Nott wasn’t one to make a move without Malfoy’s say-so. “Since Malfoy is clearly the one running this game, you can tell him that if he wants to insult my Quidditch skills, he might have the courtesy to do it in person,” he replied.

“I am perfectly capable of thinking for myself, Potter,” Nott snapped.

Harry bit back the response he wanted to give. No need to escalate, he thought. “I’m sure you are, Mr. Nott. If you’ll excuse me, I’m quite busy.” He walked on, ignoring Nott’s further comments. It was annoying, though. Plenty of Slytherins were making arses of themselves over the match, including some smarmy comments from Malfoy himself, but the heir to the House of Nott was quickly supplanting Slytherin’s new seeker as the most overtly annoying of the pack.

Dear Harry,

I thought you should know that I finally got something useful out of the Diagonal Theatre. They ’re going to publicly announce their Christmas production on 1 November. They plan to keep the actual script secret until December, but it won’t be hard for scholarly types to piece together what they’re doing. But the most important part is that they’re going to give me an advance look at the script that weekend. It won’t be a final version, but it should give us some idea of where they stand. The wild card is still Adrian Greengrass Sr, though. If you can learn anything more about his stance, it would help us to develop a strategy for the spring. (Although it would be good not to be too direct about it.)

Be sure to thank Amanda Brocklehurst again for the tip. The power of popular culture should not be underestimated.

Sincerely,

Cousin Andi

It was hard to get a hold of Slytherin students outside of classes. For a Gryffindor to sit at the Slytherin Table at mealtimes would not be tolerated, and they tended to travel in groups if they ever wandered the grounds on the weekends. Free flying time on Thursdays might have been a way to peel one of them away, except that Harry wasn’t going to the lessons anymore. That meant the library was probably the best bet—one more reason for Harry and Hermione to hang out in there.

They finally caught Daphne in the library on Wednesday afternoon, just before dinner. She was sitting with a girl with limp brown hair and glasses whose name Harry didn’t quite remember, although he knew they usually went everywhere together. Toward the end of the free period, Harry led Hermione over to their table.

“Excuse me, Miss Greengrass, may we join you?” Harry asked.

Daphne looked mildly annoyed at being interrupted for a moment, but she quickly took on a diplomatic tone and graciously acquiesced. “Of course, Mr. Potter.”

“I don’t believe you’ve met my sister, Hermione Granger.”

“No, not in person,” Daphne admitted. “Pleased to meet you.” She shook Hermione’s hand without incident, although couple of other Slytherins in the room starting eyeing them suspiciously. “My friend, Tracey Davis.”

Tracey followed her friend’s lead and shook both of their hands.

“How do you do? I was hoping we could talk for a bit,” Harry said.

Daphne sighed with resignation, as if she had expected this for a while. “About the Muggle Protection Act, right?”

“Not exactly. More about your grandfather’s general positions and philosophy. My proxy’s explained it to us, of course, but we wanted to hear it from you.”

Daphne cocked an eyebrow and exchanged an intrigued look with her friend. If Potter was smart enough to do more than just blunt campaigning, this could get interesting.

“Well, here’s the thing, Mr. Potter,” Daphne said shrewdly, “and I expect you won’t go blabbing about such things to someone like Rita Skeeter if you care anything about your House’s honour…”

Harry and Hermione both nodded. They had a passing understanding of how politics actually worked, plus Rita Skeeter was causing them enough trouble as it was.

“…Grandfather says he wants what’s best for the wizarding world, but that’s only half true. What he really wants is what’s best for the House of Greengrass. But one thing that is definitely true is that he doesn’t want another war. The Death Eaters were putting more and more pressure on us because he continued to maintain our neutrality the last time around. If you hadn’t stopped You-Know-Who—” She paused when she saw Harry’s face. “—or however it happened, we would have been in big trouble before long.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound too hard,” Hermione suggested. “Don’t let the pureblood supremacists get enough power to start another war.”

Daphne and Tracey both snorted at the idea. “As if politics is ever that simple,” Tracey replied patronisingly.

“For one, in case you haven’t noticed,” Daphne continued, flipping her bleach-blond hair, “they’ve already got enough power, or close to it. All the biggest money’s on the conservative side, and Lord Malfoy controls a third of the Wizengamot and a majority of the school’s Board of Governors. He’s got the same political network he used to slow up the Ministry in the war. It’s just that all of the Death Eaters who did the dirty work are dead or in Azkaban.”

“Officially,” Hermione said shrewdly.

“Officially,” Daphne agreed, “and best not say that too loud, especially being muggle-born.” Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Still, your grandfather has the votes to slow them down, doesn’t he?” asked Harry.

“You think the moderates are all neutral in this, Mr. Potter? They’re all still old pureblood families. They’re just like Grandfather—they don’t want another war. For most of them, it’s good business to stay out of that mess, and some of them are just scared, but a lot of them would support a conservative takeover of the Ministry if they thought it could be done cleanly.”

Harry and Hermione exchanged a nervous glance. Cousin Andi had glossed over that part. “And what does your grandfather want?” Harry asked.

“I told you. He wants what’s best for the House of Greengrass. We’re more about tradition than blood, if that’s what you mean. We support maintaining purity of blood as much because that’s what’s expected of us as anything else.”

That was the opening Harry was looking for: “Well, speaking as someone muggle-raised, tradition would be that much more appealing to preserve if the wizarding world seemed more inviting.”

“Aaand there it is,” Tracey interrupted. “I was wondering when he’d get to that. C’mon, Daphne, let’s go to dinner.” She made to get up.

Harry frowned. “Well, um…is that wrong?” he tried. He and Hermione got up to follow the two Slytherins.

Daphne actually wagged her finger at him, though at least she didn’t seem to be trying to shake them off as they walked. “Neutral family, remember? You could just as easily say there should be restrictions on muggle-borns to reduce their influence. After all, you’re as likely to corrupt our traditions as you are to adopt them—nothing personal, Mr. Potter, that’s just how the conservatives talk, and that’s ignoring the part about bloodlines. Conservatives and moderates both would really rather maintain the status quo.”

Hermione was sorely tempted to make a comment about the health of those bloodlines, but that wouldn’t go over well with the daughter of a Most Ancient House. Harry, however, focused on a different point. After thinking on it for a minute, he asked, “But can they, though? I mean, there’s so few purebloods in Hogwarts right now, the muggle-borns are twice as large a fraction as usual.”

“Which is exactly why it’s such a crisis right now,” Daphne confirmed. “But that’s not going to get Lord Malfoy to hug a muggle-born, is it?”

They were reaching the Great Hall, now, and Daphne’s demeanour changed subtly. She was clearly aware of being in a more public place and took a more aloof tone. Nonetheless, Harry and Hermione kept following her towards the Slytherin Table. “Look, Mr. Potter,” she said, “you can talk pretty well, but talk’s not worth two knuts in politics when it comes down to it. If you want to even try to get Grandfather’s support, you’re going to have to do something for him.”

“What, all that stuff like broomstick monopolies and tax exemptions,” Harry said disdainfully.

“To put it crudely,” Daphne huffed.

“Sorry,” he replied, “my proxy is better at those kinds of things than I am, but I’ll be sure to pass that along, Miss Greengrass.”

They reached the group of first-years, and a hard-faced, dark-haired boy rose to confront them.

“Potter.”

“Nott.”

“You have some business here?”

“We were just wrapping up.”

“I’ll see you at flying practice tomorrow, Miss Granger,” Daphne said, taking the hint.

“Right, thanks, uh, Miss Greengrass,” Hermione replied, wondering why she couldn’t live in a world where she could call people by their first names.

“Good evening,” Harry said as they walked away.

As soon as the pair of Gryffindors left the Slytherin Table and Daphne sat down, Theodore Nott rounded on her: “Alright, what are you playing at, Greengrass.”

Daphne rolled her eyes and scoffed at him. “It’s called politics, Theo. You should try it sometime.”

“What did he want, Miss Greengrass?” Draco Malfoy asked in a formal tone.

“Just what you’d expect—Muggle Protection Act and general lay of the land,” she replied, deliberately dismissively. “I laid it out for them—no harm in that; they’d figure it out soon enough.”

Daphne Greengrass usually kept her own counsel, and now was no exception. She would have to think about what Harry Potter had told her. She’d heard the words before, but it was rare that she really talked to anyone who was muggle-raised, much less one who had any real power. Here was proof that it wasn’t all talk. Plus, if there was one thing Potter was right about, it was the population crisis here at Hogwarts and the fact that Grandfather’s dedication to the status quo wasn’t going to be sustainable for much longer.

On Halloween morning, the smell of baking pumpkin pies was already wafting up from the kitchens through the entire castle before breakfast. All the Gryffindors were excited for the evening feast and the general air of festivity. A few of the older girls had taken it upon themselves to decorate the Common Room with charmed orange lights and black and orange banners. Harry saw Ron trying fruitlessly to turn Scabbers orange for the occasion. Harry privately thought the rat’s squeaks of protest sounded eerily human, but maybe that was just the holiday getting to him.

Halloween always had that weird bittersweet feeling for Harry and Hermione, no matter how much they always off memorialising Harry’s parents to the following Sunday, but they were actually in a pretty good mood this morning because Professor Flitwick was finally going to teach the Levitation Charm in class today. Seeing as that was their best wandless spell, it was pretty important for them to learn it with a wand, and they would be glad to finally be able to use it in public.

After a long lecture on the theory of the charm, Professor Flitwick put them all in pairs to practice. Harry, as usual, was paired with Hermione. At the next desk, Ron was paired with Neville—a dangerous combination, although Neville and Seamus probably would have been worse.

Professor Flitwick had taught them the swish and flick, the same movement Harry and Hermione had been unconsciously using with their hands for over a year, and the incantation, “Wingardium Leviosa,” but control was still a problem. When Harry first incanted, “Wingardium Leviosa,” his and Hermione’s feather shot up like a rocket and bumped into the ceiling. There were a few giggles at this, but the class was mostly used to seeing his wand go haywire whilst learning charms. The Levitation Charm was more difficult than usual because he needed to supply a continuous flow of magic, and it was very easy to lose control. He practised the charm a few more times, each of which ended in either no effect on the feather at all or a second or two of levitation followed by shooting up again to the ceiling.

Meanwhile, Ron and Neville were taking turns casting the spell on their own feather without effect. Neville was looking increasingly depressed about it, while Ron became very vocally frustrated. Eventually, Harry gave up on trying to get his feather to stay steady for more than three seconds and let Hermione have a turn.

“Wingardium Lev—Ahh!” There was a loud crackle and a flash of blue light. Ron had swung his arm back so wildly that it collided with Hermione’s arm in the middle of her incantation.

“Hey, watch out!” Hermione squeaked. “You need to calm down. And it’s Levi-o-sa, not Levio-sa.”

“Well, why don’t you try it, then?” Ron said indignantly. “Go on, see if you can do better than your brother.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and cast the spell again: “Wingardium Leviosa.” The feather rose smoothly off the desk and hovered for a couple of seconds, then shot up so fast that the shaft stuck into the ceiling.

“Oh my, well, this spell can be tricky to start off,” Professor Flitwick said. He summoned the feather back down.

As if to illustrate the point, Seamus Finnigan tried again: “Wingardium Leviosa. Wingar—” BANG!

Ron might have been in a better mood about the whole thing, except that he still hadn’t got much of anywhere with the charm himself by the end of class. As Harry and Hermione left the room, they heard Ron complaining to Neville in front of them.

“It’s Levi-o-sa, not Levio-sa. Honestly, I know she’s Harry’s sister, but she’s kinda mental.”

“Hey, she was trying to help you,” Neville replied. “You saw what happened to Seamus.”

Ron’s eyes involuntarily glanced up to his eyebrows, which the unfortunate Irish boy was now missing. “Well, there is that,” he admitted. “Still, I think they’re both a little mental. You know how Harry is. And I don’t know what their deal is with Charms.”

“Oh, if only you knew, Ron,” Harry whispered to Hermione, who smiled slightly.

“Seamus got off easy.” Sally-Anne Perks came up on Harry’s other side. “Did you see that awful haircut Justin had this morning?”

“Yeah,” Hermione said. “I was wondering about that.”

“Sophie said he set it on fire when he tried that spell,” Sally-Anne reported. “No one’s really sure how he did it.”

“Oh, Justin,” Hermione shook her head.

“Yeah, well, they’d better warn us if they ever pair him with Seamus,” Sally-Anne smirked. “There’s no telling what could happen.”

The biggest problem Harry and Hermione had with Halloween during most of the day was when several people started asking about “You-Know-Who” in history class. Since the war was after Professor Binns’s time, he didn’t have much to say on the matter, and Harry had to explain that he didn’t remember anything and didn’t know any more than what was in the books. By the end of the day, though, they were very much looking forward to the Halloween Feast. If it was anything like the Welcome Feast, it promised to be a great time.

“How was Ron in Flying Lessons?” Harry asked Hermione as they headed down to the Great Hall from their karate practice.

“Okay. He mostly just stayed away from me, but he still helped me out when I asked.”

“Well, don’t worry. He’ll come around. The Slytherins didn’t cause any trouble, did they?”

“I tried to stay away from them.” Harry nodded in agreement.

When they reached the Great Hall they were stunned in amazement. The teachers must have been busy all afternoon to set this up since lunch. Many of the usual thousands of candles were hidden inside carved, floating pumpkins whose faces moved in silent laughs or exaggerated scowls. The Hall was also “decorated” from floor to ceiling with live bats, the tables carried Halloween-themed centrepieces (though as always, a long stretch of their lengths was bare), and at the corners of the room were huge pumpkins from Hagrid’s garden that might well have weighed a ton each at harvest.

“Hey guys,” Ron pushed his way in past them, far too preoccupied about the feast to remember any earlier disagreements.

As they looked around the Hall, three of the tables looked very excited, while the fourth, at the far right, was more subdued.

“Well, I for one am glad they’ve kept the traditional feast,” and aristocratic voice proclaimed loudly. Harry, Hermione, and even Ron, stopped and turned to see Draco Malfoy expounding his view to anyone who would listen. “Father says the modern post-war celebrations are completely inappropriate—don’t you think, Mr. Potter?” Malfoy turned and grinned at Harry smugly.

“Actually, yes,” Harry called over to him, surprising the group of Slytherins. “For once, we agree on something, Mr. Malfoy.”

“What? You don’t want to have your little Potter party?” Theodore Nott mocked him.

“Uh, not really,” Harry said, as if it were obvious. “That kinda wouldn’t seem right, considering.”

“Oh, you gonna cry about it instead, Potter?” said Pansy Parkinson.

Before Harry could respond about just how sad that comment was, Ron jumped in: “You’re just jealous “cause your parents never let you have a party like the rest of us.”

“Ron…” Harry started.

“I bet they were the ones crying when You-Know-Who got beat.”

“Ron!” Harry and Hermione said together before someone could start a fight.

“What?” Ron looked surprised that they weren’t backing him up.

“This is not the time,” Harry said. “Let’s just sit down.”

They started to turn to leave, but then Nott spoke again: “Well, can you really blame him if he does, Pansy? I’d be crying, too, if I got stuck with muggles.” Some of the other Slytherins laughed.

Hermione instinctively grabbed Harry by the arm before he could make a move. Yes, they were her parents, too, but she knew Harry’s patience was wearing a lot thinner than hers after the past few weeks. She felt his magic flare up, and the floating candles around them followed suit for a moment. At this rate, they were both going to get a reputation for having poor magical control.

“To be fair, I wouldn’t expect him to,” Malfoy said, albeit cautiously. “We all know the Potters were muggle-lovers.”

“You know, you sound like you’re trying to be insulting, Malfoy,” Harry shot back, “but you’re not doing a very good job of it to me considering I was, in fact, raised by muggles. I love my family very much, and Mr. Nott, I’ll thank you not to cast aspersions on them. Good evening.” He walked away in a huff before they could say anything else.

The students all proceeded to their seats, and Professor Dumbledore stood up at the High Table. “Good evening,” he said in a solemn voice. “Before we begin, I would like to say a few words…Ten years ago tonight, the most feared dark wizard of the past half-century was defeated. We all know the popular story of that night. But the facts are that that defeat did not come at the hands of an infant—” There were murmurs throughout the Hall at this. “—but at the hands of a young couple—a gifted witch and wizard who fought most bravely in the final three years of the war, who gave their lives to protect their son, and who in doing so saved many others. On this anniversary night, I would like to ask for a moment of silence in honour of James and Lily Potter.”

The Hall bowed respectfully. There were a few annoyed whispers from the Slytherin Table, but nothing more.

“Thank you. And now, let the feast begin.”

As the long tables filled with food, Harry took off his glasses and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He might have been a little embarrassed about that after that confrontation with the Slytherins, but he could see he was hardly the only one tearing up.

Soon enough, though, Ron was back to telling stories of his own family gatherings: “Well, we always have a party. Ginny always wants to read the beginning of Harry Potter on the Orient Express where he beats You-Know-Who—you know, that was the first book…” Harry mostly tuned him out.

But the staff and students barely had time to finish loading up their plates when it happened. A scrawny brown tabby cat bolted in through the doors of the Great Hall and up to the High Table, screeching like a demon. There were two people in the Hall who actually spoke cat. When they heard the screeching, they both immediately jumped from their chairs and shouted, “There a giant monster downstairs?!”

One of those people was Minerva McGonagall.

The other was Harry Potter.

Luckily, no one had much time to notice that because at that moment, Argus Filch ran into the Great Hall, shouting like a lunatic: “Troll in the dungeon! Troll in the dungeon! Troll in the dungeon!” He didn’t stop until he tripped and fell against the High Table right in front of Albus Dumbledore.

There was silence for a fraction of a second, and then the students started screaming. There was a mad dash for the exits that only stopped when the Headmaster rose to his feet.

“SILENCE!” Dumbledore roared. “Everyone will please not panic. We have contingencies for this. Now, Argus, where is the troll?”

“It’s—it’s—in the East Wing dungeon by the Potions classrooms,” Filch rambled fearfully, “but it won’t be for long. It nearly got us, di’n’t, Mrs. Norris?” He scooped up his protesting cat in his arms.

Dumbledore sprang into action. Speaking quickly, he said, “Prefects, take a head count and inform your head of house if any students are missing. Then lead your houses back to your Common Rooms. All other teachers proceed with me to the dungeons. We must not let the troll get into the residential sections. Hagrid, go up and warn Madam Pomfrey, and guard the entrance to the Hospital Wing. Professor Binns, go down to the kitchens and warn the house elves. Argus, it’s probably best if you go with Hagrid. Go now.”

The prefects were already taking their head counts and reporting the results. Percy Weasley rounded up the first year Gryffindors and confidently led them up the stairs, as if no troll would dare to attack a prefect. The heads of house quickly conferred and determined that the only students missing from the feast were the two who were accounted for in the Hospital Wing.

“How did troll get into the castle?” Harry wondered.

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “Maybe Peeves let it in. Do you really think it’s safer to send us back to our dorms instead holing up in the Great Hall?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. A troll wouldn’t fit through the doors to the dorms.”

“Hmm…”

As the Gryffindor first years were heading up to the third floor, Hermione noticed something strange on another flight of the Grand Staircase.

“What’s Snape doing over there? Doesn’t that go to the forbidden corridor?”

“Yeah, it does,” Harry said. “That’s strange…” He lowered his voice. “Maybe I should follow him.”

“What? No! You can’t!”

He leaned closer to her and whispered, “It’s okay. You saw Mrs. Norris. I’ll be faster on four legs.”

“Harry, no, Percy’s watching! He’ll see you’re missing.”

“Percy—” Harry considered the rule-obsessed and ever-vigilant prefect. He had to admit the odds were not good. “Fine,” he whispered. “But I’m checking it out in the morning.”

Hermione sighed and gave up arguing for the evening. Harry put a reassuring arm around her shoulder, though, and helped her up the last few flights.

The whole of Gryffindor House was sitting and standing in the cramped Common Room for a little while before Professor Dumbledore’s magically-amplified voice echoed through the castle: “The troll has been contained and is being removed from the castle. Curfew is in effect until the breech in the wards in sealed. The feast will now be delivered to the House Common Rooms.” Just like that, a long buffet table appeared in the middle of the room, carried at the corners by house elves, and the same food from the feast in the great hall was delivered up by more elves. A number of people shouted. For many of the younger students, including Hermione and Harry, this was the first time they had ever seen house elves, but the little bat-eared creatures didn’t stick around long enough to talk to them.

“Hey, Harry.”

The pair turned around and saw Ron and Neville lining up behind them for their plates.

“So, do you seriously speak cat or something?” Ron asked. “How’d you know what Mrs. Norris was yelling about?”

Harry’s pulse quickened, and Hermione had to fight the urge to slap him for his stupidity. That had been his worst slip-up in years. She prayed he could find a way to talk his way out of this one. “Kinda,” he said, groping for any idea he could think of. “Professor McGonagall does because she’s an animagus, and she taught me a little…she says I have the ear for it or something.”

“Uh, yeah, I told you Harry’s not exactly normal,” Hermione played along. “He just has to wind up with weird talents. It just sounded like a bunch of screeching to me.”

“Huh. Wow, that is strange,” Ron said.

“It’s no big deal,” Harry said quickly. “It’s not really useful, except when something like this happens. I just learnt it for fun.”

To Harry’s and Hermione’s great relief, Ron dismissed this as just another quirk of Harry Potter, and Neville had the sense not to spread it around. No one else at the Gryffindor Table seemed to have noticed, so it looked like his secret was still safe…for now.

A four-legged Harry Potter crept down the hall toward the door into the forbidden corridor the next morning. He was being more cautious this time, keeping his ears open for anyone who might approach. After last night, people were sure to be watching the place more closely, but even so, he was lucky enough to find a moment when the place was unguarded. He began sniffing around, trying to find out what had happened last night—whilst fighting every instinct to run for it. When he was sure he had it figured out, he bolted.

“Harry, what is it? What did you smell?” Hermione whispered when they had got back to the alcove down the hall and he changed back.

“Mione,” he whispered back. “I smelled blood.”

“What? Do you know whose it was? Was it the troll?” she asked fearfully.

“I’m not sure. There were two men in their thirties who went down there, and it came from one of them. But I didn’t smell anything that could be a troll. Whoever one it was, I think the dog bit him.”

“You mean someone tried to break in there? Well, it has to be Snape and Quirrell—they’re the only men in the castle that age—maybe that’s what Snape was doing there.”

“But why would Snape try to steal whatever it is?”

“Harry, we know he was a Death Eater.”

“Yeah, but Dumbledore trusts him to teach here. I bet it was Quirrell.”

“Harry—”

“The Defence Professor’s always the top suspect.”

“Unless someone broke into the castle. Maybe that’s how the troll got in.”

“I don’t know,” Harry admitted. “I just wish I had some way to tell them apart.”

“Well, you can’t very well go following them around in cat form,” Hermione warned him.

“But if no one sees me change…”

“Harry, how many other cats have a white lightning bolt on their head.”

“Yeah, I guess…wait, maybe if one of us can touch Snape’s robes during class, we can get his scent on us.”

Hermione scrunched up her face. “Okay, one, that’s gross, and two, that sounds like a good way to get detention.”

“It’s worth a try,” he insisted. “Just pretend to trip or something.”

“Hmm…” She thought about it. It probably wouldn’t be that hard. “Maybe,” she conceded. “If I get a good chance.”

But she didn’t get a good chance. Snape never stood up from his desk for the entire class period that morning. Somehow, he still managed to be as intimidating as ever, especially to Neville, who looked more uncomfortable than usual to start with. Harry was reluctantly forced to concede that that seemed suspicious.

The following Sunday was probably the most difficult day Harry and Hermione had yet had at Hogwarts. While everyone else was having a relaxing weekend, they sat subdued and ate breakfast in silence. If there was one day they would have liked to be able to get away from school, it would be today.

Ron Weasley seemed to be oblivious to their attitude, as he rushed over and sat down next to them, whispering excitedly. “Hey, guys, did you hear what happened?”

“Uh, I don’t think so, Ron, what happened?” Harry asked halfheartedly.

“I heard that Marcus Flint got in a big argument with Oliver Wood about the Quidditch match next weekend, and then Wood dared Flint to go in the forbidden corridor on the third floor.”

“Oh, no,” Hermione groaned. “He didn’t do it, did he?”

“Of course he did. The rumour is Flint barely got out of there alive. They’re saying there was a giant, three-headed dog in there. How weird is that? What is it?” he added when he saw his fellow Gryffindors roll their eyes. “What, did you you already know that?”

“Sorry, Ron, we figured everybody knew about that by now,” Harry told him. “A lot of the seventh-years have been talking about it.”

“What? Why doesn’t anyone ever tell me about this stuff?”

“Because it’s forbidden,” Hermione chided. “No one wants to say it out loud because they’re not supposed to know about it. Harry just seems to attract trouble and manages to overhear things he’s not supposed to.”

Ron seemed to grudgingly accept this as he dug into his breakfast.

It was as people were wandering out from the Great Hall that Harry pulled Hermione and Neville aside to talk.

“Harry? What’s up?” Neville asked.

“Would either of you two mind if I invited Ron to come with us to Hagrid’s this afternoon?”

Neville shrugged his shoulders and said, “Okay,” but Hermione looked surprised.

“Ron? Why? He doesn’t really seem like the type to bring along for that,” she said.

Harry shrugged. “I thought he might like to come—”

“But you heard him talking on Halloween, Harry. He doesn’t really get it.”

“Yeah, but that’s why. I want to give him a chance to see how we spend the day today.”

“But do we really need to bring him?”

“Mione, he’s our friend—and, let’s face it, a political ally. We’ve hung out with Paul and Tiffany on this day before. He’s a nice guy most of the time. He’s still been helping you with the Flying Lessons, right?”

“Yeah,” she admitted.

“So I justed want to give him another chance to see how we really mark Halloween.”

Hermione looked to Neville to gauge his feelings on the matter, but he got a nervous look on his face and wisely indicated that he was staying out of this.

“Harry, it’s—it’s kind of your day,” she said, “so if you want to bring him, I won’t stop you. I hope you know what you’re doing, though.”

“Thanks, Mione.” He ran ahead to catch up with Ron, who was on his way out to the Middle Courtyard to get some fresh air, although Ron was beginning to rethink that plan, as the November weather was fast turning frosty and cold.

“Hey, Ron,” Harry called as he found the redheaded boy.

“Hey, “sup, Harry?”

“Hermione, Neville, and I were going to down and spend some time with Hagrid this afternoon. Do you want to come with us? It’s kind of a post-Halloween thing.”

“Really? Gee, thanks, that’d be great,” Ron said excitedly. “I haven’t really had a chance to meet Hagrid yet. Charlie always talked about him, though.”

“Cool. Meet us at the Clock Tower at one? I’m heading back inside.”

“Sure. See you then.”

Harry rejoined Hermione in the castle and informed her that Ron would be joining them later. In the meantime, by unspoken agreement, they started looking for a secluded place they could sit for the morning and look over the grounds. (“It’s too bad the Astronomy Tower’s off limits,” Hermione said.) Eventually, they decided the balcony in the Clock Tower was the best place. There were a few places that overlooked the ravine, but they would be less likely to be interrupted on a higher floor. They curled up against two adjacent pillars, facing each other. From here, they could look over the low railing and see much of the grounds, from Hagrid’s hut, past the Owlery and over to the river. They sat silently for a while, taking in the calm November morning.

After a while, Harry sighed, almost wearily. “Ten years,” he said quietly.

Hermione sighed, too and repeated, “Ten years.”

There was a long pause.

“I wonder if Professor Dumbledore would let us floo home to visit…” Harry said.

“He might,” Hermione replied. “But it wouldn’t really be appropriate. Remember, you’re not the only one you lost your parents in the war. This is why we already decided on Christmas holidays.”

Harry nodded and looked back over the grounds, blinking back tears. He wasn’t ashamed of crying about it—not today, of all days, but it was definitely something private, something he didn’t want just anybody to be able to see. “I know. It’s just hard,” he said, his voice catching, “not being able to get out of here for the tenth…”

Hermione scooted over to him and got up on her knees, draping an arm around his shoulders so she could do her rarely-used big sister routine: “I know it is, Harry, but we always knew we’d have this problem. That’s why we came up with this plan.”

Harry leaned into her and let out a small whine that sounded suspiciously like a meow. She ran her fingers through his hair and gently scratched him behind his right ear. He relaxed some.

“That was nice of you to invite Ron,” she said.

“Mm hmm…I like having friends around for this day.”

“I know, Harry. I’m sure we’ll have a nice time with Hagrid.”

They both left unsaid what else they were thinking: they might well have invited Susan or Mandy—or Dean or almost any of the Gryffindors, really. But Neville and (a little to their own surprise) Ron were the closest two friends they had so far, and neither of them wanted to make this a big get-together.

They sat there on the balcony for a long time, watching the grounds, glad of the peace and quiet. The first Sunday in November always involved some quiet time with family, along with the visits, and they were content to while away the morning on that. They’d made sure to get their homework done early, so they could take the whole day out. Finally, as the time began to run short, Hermione spoke up. “Come on, little brother, let’s go get lunch,” she said with a slight smile. Harry would never let her get away with calling him that in public, but he followed her without complaining.

After lunch, the two of them met up with Neville and Ron at the Clock Tower and walked down the path to Hagrid’s hut. The huge man opened the door and greeted them warmly. As usual, Harry jumped out of the way as Fang came bounding out to meeting. By now, Hermione and Neville had figured that out, too, so Ron took the full force of it. He soon wound up flat on his back with the boar hound licking his face.

“Ah! Geroffme!” he yelled. Neville and Hermione pulled Fang off of him, and Hagrid pulled the dog back inside. “Why didn’t you warn me about him?” he demanded.

“Sorry, Ron,” Hermione said. “We’ve kind of got used to him by now.”

“Speak for yourself,” Harry said, keeping his distance from Fang. Neville tentatively pulled the dog alongside him. They went inside, with Harry and Hermione sitting in one over-sized chair and Ron and Neville sitting in another.

“Thanks for having us over, Hagrid,” Harry said as they got settled.

“Aw, “s no trouble, Harry,” Hagrid replied, blushing through his thick beard. “All o’ yeh are welcome anytime. Especially today.”

“What’s going on today?” Ron asked as he tried and failed to mask his disappointment at the quality of Hagrid’s rock cakes.

“Well, Ron,” Harry started slowly, “you know about me and Halloween—and since Halloween is a holiday, and the tourists are always out in Godric’s Hollow, our family always just celebrates the regular holiday on that day and that’s it. At home, we save the memorial stuff for the Sunday after. We usually spend the day with our friends and family, and we visit my birth parents’ graves. Except we can’t really do that here.”

“Ohh…” Ron said, finally understanding the somber faces around him. “I’m sorry, mate.”

“It’s kind of the same for me,” Neville said quietly, looking down at his hands. “My Gran always took me to visit my parents on the first of November—and birthdays and holidays and stuff—but I can only visit them at Christmas and Easter while I’m here.”

“Your parents, Nev?”

Neville looked reluctant to answer and looked to Harry and Hermione for help.

“They’re in St. Mungo’s,” Hermione whispered, sending Ron a look that indicated he should not pry further.

“Ohh…” Ron repeated. “Wow, I guess that’s gotta be hard for all of you. You, uh, you didn’t really need to invite me.”

“We wanted to,” Harry insisted. “You’re our friend, right?” Ron’s unconsciously held his head a little higher at Harry Potter calling him his friend. “We like to have our friends around on this day. Anyway, we came to see Hagrid today because he worked with both of our parents in the war.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Hagrid said. “Matter of fact, I worked with yer uncles, too, Ron—Gideon and Fabian.”

“You did?” Ron said in surprise. “What were they like? Mum doesn’t really talk about them much.”

“Ah, they were both great boys,” Hagrid said wistfully. “I know yer brothers, Fred and George, were named for them, but they really acted more like Bill and Charlie—fought like true lions, too.” Ron beamed with pride.

They talked for a long while, swapping the few stories they had about their families, with Hagrid, of course, doing most of the talking. Harry told them about Godric’s hollow (Ron had been there, but Neville’s Gran was too sensible for that kind of thing, and neither of them had seen the Potters’ grave), and how they would have tea with Bathilda Bagshot every year, which impressed Neville. Neville himself didn’t have many stories to tell, since he was still tight-lipped about his visits to St. Mungo’s, but Hagrid regaled them with tales of the little pranks Frank and Alice Longbottom would play on each other in school.

“Well, Neville, yer dad took a page from yer granddad’s book—” he said.

“He did not put a fanged gerbil in her handbag,” Neville said with surprising force. The other children all stared at him. He started blushing and stammered, “M-my granddad had a weird sense of humour.”

“Nah, he didn’t put it in yer mum’s handbag,” Hagrid clarified. “He pretended it was a regular one and gave it to her as a gift.”

“Oh, well, that’s not so bad.”

“Well, yer mum didn’t take it too well after it bit her. She really hexed yer dad good after that. And then she gave the gerbil away to one of her roommates.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. The funny thing was it kept changing hands. No one wanted to keep it once they saw the fangs, so they just kept giving it away. And them, somehow, Harry’s dad, who was a second-year at the time, got hold of it and planted it in…well, uh…somebody’s hat.” Everyone but Ron had a decent idea of who that somebody was, but they didn’t want to say it.

Ron’s laughed uproariously. “Bloody hell! What happened?”

“Oh, they got in a nasty fight. And Harry’s mum told him off somethin’ fierce—they didn’t like each other yet…nope, yeh didn’t want to get on Lily Evans’ bad side.” He rose to his feet for some more tea.

Hermione was reminded about something that had been bugging her and made an opportunity for herself: “Hey, Hagrid, speaking of animals, we thought we saw Sn…someone trying to get past that three-headed dog on Halloween. Do you know anything about that?”

Hagrid nearly tripped and fell over, which would surely have been disastrous given his size. “How do you know about Fluffy?” he said.

“Fluffy?” Ron and Neville demanded.

“Hagrid, half the school knows about Fluffy!” Harry said. “The upper years have been daring each other to go in that corridor.”

“What?” Hagrid roared. “What’re they doin’ that for? Don’ they know it’s dangerous?”

“Hagrid, they’re teenage boys,” Hermione said. “They like to do dangerous things. Especially if it’s also forbidden, and no one tells them why.”

“Well, they need to cut it out. Fluffy’s alright to his Papa, but he takes his job serious.” The children shuddered a little at Hagrid describing himself as that thing’s “Papa.”

“But the door’s only protected by a Colloportus,” Hermione said, “or so they say. It’s too easy to get in.”

“Well, someone’s gotta get in to take care o’ Fluffy,” Hagrid said proudly.

They all looked at each other. That would explain a lot. “Are you taking care of Fluffy?” asked Harry.

“Well, of course I am. He’s my dog. Bought him off a Greek chappie last year. I just lent him to Dumbledore to guard the, uh…”

“Guard the what?”

“I shouldn’ta said that. It’s none of yer business, tha’ is. It’s top secret Hogwarts business.”

“Is it the thing someone tried to steal from Gringotts?” Harry pressed.

“Nope, not sayin’ anything more. Yer meddlin’ in dangerous business, yeh are. Just forget about the whole thing. It’s all between Professor Dumbledore and Nicolas Flamel—”

“Who’s Nicolas Flamel?” Hermione asked.

Hagrid opened his mouth angrily, and then scowled at himself. “I shouldn’ta told yeh that. I should not have told yeh that,” he muttered.

Hermione wasn’t done, though. Hagrid had told them he wasn’t supposed to use magic, but these seemed like pretty high-stakes. “Hagrid, even if someone needs to…take care of Fluffy,” she said sceptically, “can’t Professor Dumbledore put a stronger locking spell on the door and give you a magic key or something?”

“Huh? Uh…maybe…” he said. “Might be a good idea if a lot o’ people are breakin’ in there. I’ll have to talk to Dumbledore about it…Look, I don’ want to get unfriendly with yeh, especially not today, but yeh can’t be askin’ me any more about that—thing. I’ll see about protectin’ that door, and tha’ should take care of it.”

Hermione and Harry looked sceptical at that, but they let the matter drop. They talked for perhaps another half hour before the conversation finally wound down.

“Thanks for comin’ out to see me,” Hagrid said as they left. “And if you happen to run into that little Susan Bones, let her know she can come talk to me, too. I knew her Uncle Edgar in the war.”

“Sure, Hagrid, bye.”

“So who did you see trying to break in to the third floor corridor?” Ron asked as they walked back up the path to the castle.

“We’re not completely sure—” Harry started.

“We’re pretty sure it was Snape,” Hermione insisted.

“Snape!”

“I don’t know,” Harry countered. “I still think it might have been Quirrell—maybe Snape was trying to stop him.”

Ron and Neville looked confused.

“We know both Professors Snape and Quirrell went down there on Halloween,” explained Hermione. “But did you see how Snape never stood up in class Friday? We think he got bitten.”

“Oh, I bet he was up to no good,” Ron said.

“Y-yeah,” Neville said nervously. “Y-you know how nasty Snape is.”

“I guess,” Harry said, “but Snape’s been here for years, and he hasn’t done anything that bad.”

“But so was Professor Quirrell,” Hermione observed. “You’re just hung up on that Defence Professor curse.”

“Hey, the curse is real!” Ron said. “My whole family talks about it. But I still bet it was Snape. I bet Quirrell’s really gonna get sacked for hexing Malfoy.” Even Harry laughed at that.

“So have either of you heard of Nicolas Flamel?” Harry asked.

Neville and Ron both shook their heads no.

“It sounds vaguely familiar,” Hermione said in frustration. “I just don’t remember where I read it.”

“Yeah, same here,” Harry confirmed. “We’ll have to try to look it up somewhere.”

The Quidditch rivalry continued to heat up around Harry. A lot of it came from the older Slytherins, who weren’t intimidated by the Boy-Who-Lived because of the age difference. (Ironically, those Slytherins were more sensible about that than most of the rest of the school.) Many of them would make rude comments as he passed in the hall or joke about him getting knocked off his broom. They all knew how good a flier he was supposed to be, but not all of them believed it or cared.

Illicit bets on the match were changing hands all over the school, allegedly involving some of the teachers, which wouldn’t have surprised anyone, considering that it was possibly the worst-kept rule in Hogwarts after “no magic in the corridors.” Normally, the Weasley Twins had a corner on that market, but since they were on the Gryffindor team, they deferred to some of the older Ravenclaws to make the books. Flying even faster than the bets themselves were the rumours about just what McGonagall and Snape had wagered each other over the match, but fewer people believed those, since Snape would never do anything that carried any real risk of public humiliation.

Oliver Wood was really going over the edge, giving Harry flying tips anytime they met in the halls and insisting he be escorted everywhere so that the Slytherins couldn’t knock him out of the match. Admittedly, this last bit was probably sensible, since there were so many skirmishes going on. Only a couple of people actually wound up in the Hospital Wing, but the last thing Harry needed was to get on Madam Pomfrey’s bad side right before the match.

It was on Friday, the day before the match, as Harry was huddling in the frosty courtyard with Hermione, Neville, Ron, and Angelina Johnson as his escort, that they heard a certain blond boy bragging to a large gaggle of Slytherins with Marcus Flint standing over his shoulder in addition to his usual bodyguards. “I’m not worried,” said Draco Malfoy in what was probably a blatant lie. “Potter may be fast on a broom, but that’s no substitute for growing up with the game. Besides, you know why Gryffindor always loses—they’re too honourable to do what it takes. They’re almost as bad as Hufflepuff.”

The other Slytherins laughed loudly at this, and Angelina decided to take matters into her own hands. Striding up to the group, she called out, “Yeah, wait till you’re facing the Weasley Twins tomorrow and then try saying that, Malfoy!”

“Right, like we’re gonna be scared of a team of a bunch of little third years,” Marcus Flint growled out, sending Angelina a leering grin with his big snaggleteeth.

Angelina grimaced and shot back, “Yeah, well, we’re not scared of a team of spoilt rich kids.”

Malfoy and Theodore Nott glowered at Angelina, but Malfoy had a comeback ready: “You’re just jealous because we’ve all got decent brooms…Say, Weasley, what are your brothers flying? Cleansweep Fives? You’d be better off selling them to a museum to make a few galleons. Merlin knows you could use it.” The other Slytherins laughed again.

Ron turned very red at this. “Why you little—!” He started to run at Malfoy, but Harry and Angelina held him back while the Slytherins closed ranks around their Seeker.

“If the shoe fits, Weasley,” Draco said, “although with you, maybe it doesn’t.”

“Shut up, Malfoy!” Neville said, to his own surprise.

“Ooo, the squib standing up for the blood traitor. Now I’m really scared.”

“Neville’s no squib, Malfoy,” Harry said, stepping out in front. “And he’s not alone, either.”

Malfoy glared at him, but Harry had already proved himself as a serious opponent in this game, so he shut his mouth.

Unfortunately, Nott was ready to take up the slack: “Right, he’s just an idiot who hangs around with a half-blood who was raised by muggles.”

The other Slytherins sniggered derisively. Harry stood very stiff. “Do we have a problem, Nott?” he said threateningly.

“Oh, it’s nothing personal,” Nott said in a tone that made it clear that it was. “It’s a tragedy, really,” Nott continued. “The last member of a Noble pureblood family is a half-blood who didn’t even get a proper magical education. It’s all these silly modern ideas that breeding doesn’t matter that do it.” He was obviously quoting his father’s talking points, now. “Spread by Dumbledore and all those other mixed families who keep trying to bring down the best and brightest of the purebloods. You can see the damage it’s down to your own family, Potter—it only takes a few bad decisions to end a great pureblood line.”

Hermione grabbed Harry by the arm at that. With the glares he was shooting out, the other Slytherins sensed a fight brewing and edged away. Malfoy looked at the whole situation with disapproval. Nott may have been from a Noble House, but they were perfectly willing to make him the sacrificial lamb if it could get Potter in trouble before the match, especially if he was foolish enough to say that to his face. Angelina was just too shocked to intervene.

Harry was well aware of the danger of upsetting the match, though. He would handle this verbally. He shook off Hermione’s hand and suppressed the crackle of magic around him. The, he drew himself up and stepped forward until he was just out of arm’s reach of Nott. He remembered these facts well. He remembered because Cousin Andi had strongly advised him to memorise the arguments. True, she had not advised him to use them in such a confrontational manner, but he was really getting tired of all the bigotry.

“Theodore Nott,” he said harshly. “In 1932, your great-grandfather, Cantankerus, said that there were only twenty-eight families—out of over a thousand in Magical Britain—that were still ‘pureblood’ enough for his standards. The Potters weren’t even on that list, although we were still pureblooded enough for the Blacks. Do you know what’s happened to them? Many of the bloodlines are failing on their own. Look at your own family, Mr. Nott: a single heir born late in your parents’ life. Or my father’s pureblood family: also a single heir born late in his parents’ life. And that’s just the start. It’s no secret that Adrian and Hyacinth Greengrass have been trying for a son for years without success. A generation ago, Mr. Nott, there were ten Malfoys. Now, there are only three. A generation ago, there were over a dozen Blacks. Now, the last of the Blacks is deservedly rotting in Azkaban. And then there’s the war. Because of the war, the last of the Crouches is an ageing widower. All of the remaining Lestranges are in Azkaban. The Longbottoms are as good as down to a single heir—sorry, Neville. The Rosiers are extinct in the male line, and the Prewetts are extinct in the male line. In your grandfather’s time, Mr. Nott, the Fawleys were major power players. Now, they’re a small family without a political role thanks to Grindelwald’s war. The Gaunts vanished entirely during Grindelwald’s War. So much violence, most of it pureblood against pureblood, and yet during all this time, not a single one of those twenty-eight families lost their pureblood status to intermarriage. So tell me, Mr. Nott, who is the real enemy of the purebloods here?”

Everyone present, even Hermione, was staring at him wide-eyed. Harry began to get very nervous. He was suddenly aware that what he had just said could possibly have either Malfoy or Nott challenging him to a duel for the dig at their bloodlines, even though he had included his own family in his pronouncement. True, supervised duels were allowed under the school rules, and, true, he could play his “no wands’ trump card and win it, but the press it would generate would not be good. Worse, he could see a number of people already had their hands on their wands.

Harry could tell just by looking that Malfoy had already come to the same conclusions. But Malfoy was also smart enough not to get into a fight the day before the match. Nott, on the other hand…but Malfoy had precedence over Nott in demanding satisfaction, being from a Most Ancient House, and everyone knew it. Even Nott openly looked to Malfoy for a cue.

Malfoy, of course, didn’t want to see his fellow aristocrat get humiliated in a muggle duel any more than himself. Baiting for duels was a dangerous game at the best of times. You weren’t actually supposed to get yourself into one. Potter and Nott may have both gone too far unintentionally, from their faces, but Potter had managed to gain the advantage. Nott might be clever enough to see how it would end, but Malfoy didn’t feel like taking the chance. He’d deal with Nott’s indiscretion himself later.

“You’d better watch what you say, Potter,” Malfoy said with even more venom than Harry. “It might come back to bite you. Father says your parents didn’t know what was good for them, either.” That was a classic evading tactic: using hearsay to deflect responsibility.

“I didn’t hear an answer to my question,” Harry said carefully.

“That’s enough! We’ll settle this on the Pitch, Potter!” Malfoy spat.

“Fine by me.” Harry stalked away, with his fellow Gryffindors quickly closed ranks around him.

“Wicked!” Ron said.

“Harry, that was…” Neville started.

“Awesome!” Ron offered.

“It was reckless!” Angelina chided him.

“Yeah, sorry, I got carried away there,” Harry replied. “What he said about my family…”

“You really need to work on your temper, Harry,” Hermione said. “Picking fights won’t solve anything, no matter what they say.”

“Yeah, I know,” he sighed.

“You need to convince them in civil discourse…the ones you can, anyway.”

“Still, I wish I could say something like that,” Neville said nervously, still in awe of Harry’s rant. “My Gran might be able to get away with it, but I sure couldn’t.” Hermione and Harry gave him a sympathetic look.

“I can’t believe you told them off like that, mate,” Ron said.

“Uh, thanks. Probably wasn’t the best idea, though,” he admitted.

“I should think not,” Angelina said. “Come on, I’m going inside. It’s too cold out here.” She poked a finger at Harry. “And make sure you stay out of trouble until after the match.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The next day was the big day. Harry woke early that morning, feeling very nervous about the impending match. It was his first time flying in public, and all eyes were sure to be on the Boy-Who-Lived. He went down to the Common Room to find that Hermione was also already up. They both read uneasily for a while until the rest of their house-mates were up and moving.

“Morning, guys,” said Ron Weasley as he descended the staircase with the other first years.

“Morning,” a few people said.

He sat at one of the tables with a book, which raised some eyebrows. Ron wasn’t exactly the type to crack a book that early in the morning. Hermione and Harry watched in confusion until he set a squirming Scabbers on the table and tapped the rat with his wand.

“Colovaria bestia rufus. Colovaria bestia rufus,” he chanted.

Hermione and Harry laughed. “Still trying to turn Scabbers different colours?” Harry asked.

Ron blushed a little and explained, “I wanted to make him Gryffindor red for the match. I don’t get it. It’s not like this is one of Fred and George’s fake spells. It’s supposed to be a spell to change the colours of animals. You know, Fred and George actually did turn him green once when Percy was ten…course they mighta used dye or something.”

“Hmm…let me take a look,” Hermione said, budging in to get a clear view of Ron’s book. She looked over the page on animal colour changes. “I don’t know. It seems like kind of an advanced spell,” she said. She drew her wand to try it herself, and Ron opened his mouth in protest, considering her frequent overpowered mishaps in Charms class, but before he could speak, Scabbers noticed Harry coming too close for comfort. The rat squirmed away and ran under a chair.

“Oh, sorry,” Harry said.

“I don’t get why he’s afraid of you,” Ron said. “He’s normally fine with people.”

Harry was starting to wonder himself why he always felt a little uneasy around Scabbers, but his dismissed the thought for the time being. He was far too worried about the match.

The chatter had reached a fever pitch by the time they made it to the Great Hall. Everyone was excited to see the two youngest Seekers in a century in action. Spirits were so high that Harry and Hermione could feel the change in the magic in the air. As soon as Harry entered Hall, he was whisked away to sit with the team, where Wood was making sure everyone got a good breakfast and was ready for the game. Harry was too tense to eat much, but he did help himself to some sausages.

As the clock approached eleven, the Gryffindor and Slytherin teams headed out to the locker rooms to suit up, and the rest of the school heading for the Pitch. It was quite possibly the largest turnout in years. The castle would be all but empty. Even Dumbledore would be attending. In the chaos, Hermione just barely caught Harry on his way into the locker room.

“Hey! Hey, Harry!” She called. He paused on the threshold. “I just wanted to say good luck out there.”

“Thanks,” he said. Then he stared off into space wistfully for a moment.

“Harry?”

“Mione, do you realise it was six years ago today that I first showed up on our porch?”

Hermione chuckled and pulled him into a hug. “How could I forget? That was the weirdest day of my life.”

“Well, it was the best day of mine—or really the day after was…Thanks for everything, sis.”

“Anything for you, little brother,” she said, too quietly for the others to hear. She pulled back and made a show of ruffling his hair and whispered, “Go get ‘em, furball.”

Harry followed the team into the locker room, his fears banished for now. Soon, after the inevitable awww’s had subsided and Wood gave his pep talk—with the Weasley Twins mocking the whole thing behind his back—they made their way out to the Pitch.

“You scared, Potter?” Angelina said as they stepped into the sunlight.

He shook his head. “Nope. Are you? Their Chasers are on Nimbus Two Thousands.”

“Don’t worry about us,” she assured him. “Bletchley’s on a Nimbus, too, and that is not a Keeper’s broom. Plus not much gets past Wood. We’ll be fine. You just focus on showing up that little blond ponce.”

A wicked grin crossed Harry’s face. “With pleasure.”

The crowd was roaring. Almost everyone was dressed in red or green. The Hufflepuffs and most of Ravenclaw had sided with Gryffindor. Harry saw cameras dotting the crowd. Apparently, several seventh-years had been recruited as press representatives. The weather was good, though not perfect—cold and very sunny, but not too windy. It looked like it was going to be a good match.

“Potter.”

Despite that.

“Malfoy.”

The Slytherin boy smirked at Harry and said, “May the best Seeker win.”

Harry did his best to smirk back: “Don’t worry, I will.” Both of them hid their true apprehension well. No matter what either of them said, they were close to evenly matched. This was going to be a tough competition.

As the two teams faced off along a line, Madam Hooch stepped in between them. She released the Bludgers, followed by the Golden Snitch, which buzzed around Harry’s and Malfoy’s heads before zooming off into the sky. She held up the Quaffle in one hand and called out, “I want a nice fair game—from all of you. Mount your brooms, please.”

Harry straddled his Nimbus Two Thousand, not taking his eyes off Malfoy. His cat-like stare usually got to most people after a while, but Malfoy seemed to be resistant to it.

Madam Hooch blew a long blast on her whistle, and Harry kicked off the ground—hard.

Between his Nimbus Two Thousand’s power and his natural magical affinity, it was easy for Harry to coast high into the air, above the unfolding action, hopefully above the Snitch, which would be more visible against the green of the grass than the bright blue of the sky. Malfoy had to push it to catch Harry, but he was soon on the same level. They began slowly circling the pitch opposite each other, mostly looking down, but each taking frequent glances at their opposite numbers.

“And the Quaffle is taken by the lovely Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor.” The Weasley Twins’ friend, Lee Jordan, was providing commentary, with Professor McGonagall acting as his foil. “And passes to Alicia Spinnet—good find of Wood’s, moved up from reserve. They make quite a pair, don’t they?”

“Jordan!” McGonagall cut in.

“Sorry, Professor. Spinnet passes to Katie Bell—no, intercepted by Marcus Flint of Slytherin. Flint races down the pitch—damn, those Nimbus Two Thousand’s are fast—sorry, Professor—he’s leaving the Chasers behind—it’s all up to Wood—YES! He saves it!”

Harry did a loop on his broom as he continued circling the pitch. Malfoy rolled his eyes at him.

“Katie Bell takes the Quaffle—coming up the middle, Johnson and Spinnet guarding close—whoa, just dodges a Bludger—and there’s the other one—watch out! No! That was deliberate!” One of the Slytherin Beaters had ploughed straight into the Gryffindors’ formation, nearly knocking them out of the air. Katie dropped the Quaffle, and one of the opposing Chasers snatched it out of the air.

“Pucey takes the Quaffle—the Weasley Twins are on him—he ducks the Bludgers—lines up his shot and…Slytherin scores,” Lee groaned. Cheers erupted from one quarter of the stands, and boos from the other three quarters.

“Johnson takes the Quaffle, passes to Spinnet, back again, over to Bell,” Lee reported breathlessly. The Gryffindor Chasers were flying in a tight weave to try to dodge the faster Slytherins.

Harry decided to get in on the action and see just how good Malfoy was on a Nimbus. He sped up, tightened his circle, and then, with a deliberate swoop, flew under Malfoy toward a random point on the far side of the pitch. Malfoy swung around and started following, but not marking him that close just yet. Malfoy had seen him fly at that first lesson and had some inkling that Harry was playing with him.

“Looks like Potter’s spotted something, maybe,” Lee said. “I don’t know, looks like Malfoy’s calling it a feint. Hang on…”

Harry spotted an opportunity and went for it. He turned his swerve into one of his trademark straight-line sprints, and Malfoy noted the change and followed him at top speed. But Harry wasn’t going for the Snitch; he was dashing in front of one of the Slytherin Beaters, who was lining up a bludger shot on Alicia. Between him and Malfoy getting in the way, the shot went wide, leaving Malfoy and the Beater shouting at each other.

“Nice one, Harry!” George yelled as he flew past.

“And Potter saves Spinnet! Excellent!” Lee said. “Wait, where’s he going?”

Harry pulled back and suddenly realised that his broom wasn’t slowing down. He was hurtling straight toward the stands at top speed and couldn’t stop. He pulled harder and harder, to no avail. But finally, at the last second, the broom swung into a gut-wrenching left turn that left his head spinning, and he started circling around the pitch again.

That was odd, he thought. It’s never done that before.

“Gryffindor scores! Ten-ten!” Harry was just in time to hear. There was a far louder roar from the crowd, as just about everyone wanted to see the snakes put down.

But the rest of the match didn’t go as well. As good as the Gryffindors were, they were just no match for a whole team with Nimbus Two Thousands. The scores climbed: twenty-ten, thirty-ten, forty-ten, forty-twenty.

But Harry had a far more pressing problem. That glitch with his broom was no fluke. He had pushed his broom for all it was worth in practice, but now, every time he took it into a fast sprint, the control would seize up, and he couldn’t stop or turn. With Bludgers and other players zooming everywhere, that could turn bad very fast, not to mention making it harder to catch the Snitch. To add insult to injury, Malfoy had noticed.

“What’s the matter, Potter? Can’t handle a real broom?”

Harry didn’t dignify that with a response, instead, angling his broom just so, and he buzzed Malfoy’s slicked-back hair with his feet. The Slytherin Seeker ducked out of the way, cursing, which, luckily for him, Madam Hooch didn’t hear. He swung around and started following as Harry did another fast lap around the field.

“Looks like we’ve got a Seeker battle brewing—hang on, Potter’s gone wide again.”

The Slytherins in the stands jeered at Harry’s poor flying. Something was really going wrong. What he wouldn’t have given to be able to use his wandless magic right now to keep steady. But it was against the rules, and he’d never be able to cast a wandless Levitation Charm strong enough to stabilise something as large as a broom anyway. Whatever was happening, he’d have to fight it with flying skills alone.

Down in the stands, Hermione, Ron, and Neville were all standing with Hagrid in the middle of the Gryffindor section. Hermione had monopolised Hagrid’s binoculars and was worriedly following he brother’s flight around the field.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “He never flies like that in practice. Could something have happened to his broom?”

“Can’t have,” Hagrid insisted. “It’s brand new. Only thing’ll interfere with a top model broom is powerful dark magic.”

Immediately, Hermione whipped the binoculars around to the teachers’ box, watching the teachers intently while taking frequent glances back to Harry’s flying.

“What’re you doing?” Ron asked.

“If it’s powerful dark magic, it has to be one of the teachers doing it,” she said. “None of the students would be powerful enough.”

“No way,” Hagrid jumped in. “None o’ the teachers would try an’ hurt Harry.”

“But Hagrid, something is wrong with Harry’s broom. What else could it be?”

“Johnson takes the Quaffle around the edge,” Lee announced. “Oh, foul! Flint grabs the Beater’s club! Get him, Fred!”

“Jordan!” McGonagal scolded, though only half-heartedly.

“Sorry, Professor. Johnson passes to Spinnet. Weasley and Flint are fighting over the Bludger—oh, come on, Professor, that’s a major foul!”

Harry looked over and saw Madam Hooch trying to break up Fred and Flint and get Flint to give back the Beater’s club he’d grabbed. But before she could call it, Alicia took the opportunity to go for the goal. She faced down Miles Bletchley, swerved left, then right, took the shot, and…

Alicia made the goal! But Gryffindor was still down thirty to sixty. This was as good a chance as any, though. “Time out!” Harry yelled. Wood waved his agreement to Madam Hooch, and she blew her whistle.

“Time out!” she shouted. “And penalty shot to Gryffindor!” The players descended to the pitch.

“What’s the matter, Potter?” Wood said. “Why do you keep flying like that?”

“My broom’s acting up,” he said. “The braking charm keeps cutting out, and it’s not turning well, either.”

“The braking charm? It shouldn’t be doing that. Are you sure?”

“Well, it’s sure not handling like it does in practice.”

“Huh…we can’t back out now, though,” Wood said firmly. “Try putting it down and picking it up again. Maybe that’ll reset something.”

“Like rebooting a computer?”

“Like what?”

“Never mind.” Harry dismounted his broom and held it where it wanted to hover. “Down,” he said, and the broom slipped out of his hand and fell lifeless on the grass. After another moment, he said, “Up,” and it leapt back into his hand. He hopped on and flew a few circles around Wood. He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s doing alright, now.”

“Good, let’s hope it stays that way. Let’s go. Angelina, take the penalty shot.”

The problem with the Nimbus Two Thousand—and with racing-type brooms in general—was that what it gained in speed, it lost in manoeuvrability. From Quidditch Through the Ages, Harry had learnt that there was a big debate between Quidditch teams that always bought seven top-of-the-line brooms for their players and teams that bought different models optimised for each position. Harry thought Angelina was proving the second point when she out-flew Bletchley’s Nimbus and easily made her penalty shot with what was supposed to be an inferior model.

But Harry didn’t have time to dwell on that, because Malfoy had finally taken the initiative and was diving for something. Harry couldn’t tell if it was the Snitch or not, but he wheeled around to follow. He picked a place a little ahead of Malfoy and dove straight at it, hoping to get in front, but then it happened. His steering failed again.

A short scream was the only warning Malfoy got. Harry zoomed inches in front of him, breaking off his pursuit. Harry got a brief glimpse of something gold and fluttering to his left, but it was gone in a flash. At least he’d kept Malfoy off it.

“Watch where you’re going, Potter!” the boy yelled.

“Whoa, and Potter charges Malfoy!” Lee said. “To bad he missed—I’m kidding, Professor.”

Malfoy was angry now. He took the lead, leading Harry all over the pitch. Harry tried to keep up as best he could and managed to cut him off a couple more times, but he just wasn’t a match for the Slytherin with his faulty control. He couldn’t understand what was making it glitch like that, but the calls kept getting closer and closer. It seemed like the braking charm always failed at the worst possible time, whenever he was about to hit something. He needed to catch the Snitch soon so he could get back on the ground before he crashed.

“That’s it! I knew it!” Hermione shouted.

“What?”

“What is it?”

“It’s Snape! He’s jinxing Harry’s broom!”

“What!”

Hermione had been watching the teachers’ box and Professor Snape in particular very carefully, looking for any patterns, and she found one: every time Harry’s broom went out of control, Snape was staring intently at him and muttering something.

“Can’t be,” Hagrid said. “Snape’d never do that.”

“He is! I know a jinx when I see one,” she insisted.

“What do we do?” Ron said.

“I don’t know…I’ve gotta try something.” Hermione turned and sprinted around the pitch toward the teachers’ box.

Meanwhile, Harry managed to get back in front, but Malfoy was marking him closely. He tried to shake him off by diving into the heart of the action, and hopefully fend off the Slytherin Chasers from Katie Bell while he was at it. But nothing went right, there. Katie swerved in his direction at the same moment Harry’s broom seized up once again. Malfoy flew wide, and with good reason. In the stands, Hermione squealed with fear when she saw it. Harry was rapidly headed toward a three-way, no, a four-way collision, as he was headed straight towards Katie Bell, even as Marcus Flint moved to intercept her, and a Bludger sailed their way.

“Oh no, watch out!” Lee shouted.

Harry waved his arms frantically and yelled, “Get out of the way!” But it was too late. Katie barely had time to start pulling up when Flint and Harry both slammed into her broom and sent it spinning so hard that she flew right off the handle. She flipped through the air as Harry reached out to grab her.

The crowd rose to its feet in horror. They could barely see anything in the tumble of bodies and broomsticks. Lee yelled out, “What’s going on? I can’t see!” The Bludger had clipped Flint’s shoulder and sent him careering toward the teachers’ box, blocking their line of sight. With one bad arm, he couldn’t get control again until he had flown into the crowd—straight into Professor Quirrell, who dove to the floor, clutching at his turban and cursing most unprofessionally.

But when the view cleared, Harry heard a roar from the crowd. His broom had miraculously started obeying him again at the last second, and he caught Katie by her wrists. He was now hanging upside down, his scarlet robe billowing around his shoulders, with Katie swinging from his arms like a trapeze artist.

“YES!” Lee bellowed. “I don’t believe it! Potter has caught Bell in a Serafini Snatch! I’ve never seen anything like it!”

“Thanks,” Katie said with a shaking voice as she looked up at Harry’s face.

“Anytime,” Harry replied. He gripped her left wrist as hard as he could while she held out her right hand and called her broom back to her. In another moment, they were off again.

He took a lap low around the stands, not too fast this time. It could almost have been a victory lap: everyone but the Slytherins was giving him a standing ovation.

Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and kept running. Finally, she snuck around to a place close by where she could see both the teachers and the match, and waited. Not a minute later, she saw Harry bolt down the pitch, and she made her move. Not bothering to draw her wand, she surreptitiously waved her hand, and Professor Snape’s long, greasy hair flew in front of his eyes. The Potions Master staggered in surprise.

That’ll teach you to try to hurt my brother.

Harry was growing more excited by the second. He had finally spotted the Golden Snitch on his own and made a beeline for it. Then, as it got closer and closer, he noticed something else: his broom was still responding! Whatever was messing with it must have stopped. And it was a good thing, too, because the Snitch made a sudden turn downward. Harry took a chance and dove and was pleased to find that he pulled out of it just fine. But now the Snitch doubled back, giving Malfoy a chance to catch up. They were side by side, now, racing as fast their brooms would carry them just feet above the grass. Malfoy bumped Harry to the side, but Harry bumped Malfoy back. Their brooms were too evenly matched. They were both closing in on the Snitch, inches apart. But then Harry had an idea. He kicked he feet up and laid completely flat along his broom, his shins balancing on the tail, and his chin on the very front of the handle, cutting down his air resistance and giving him the extra burst of speed he needed to—

YES! His fingers closed around the fluttering golden ball three feet in front of Malfoy’s face.

“Potter’s caught it! Potter’s caught the Snitch!” Lee Jordan was ecstatic. “Gryffindor wins a hundred and ninety to ninety!”

Harry held the Snitch triumphantly over his head as he took another lap around the pitch. He waved to the teachers’ box, where Professor McGonagall was beaming at him, Snape was yelling at Dumbledore for some reason, and Quirrell was still recovering from his collision with Flint and looking confused.

The roar of the crowd was deafening as he descended to the grass. The Slytherins were all sulking away, but the Gryffindors and some Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs stormed the field, crowding around the team. Oliver Wood had tears in his eyes when he landed. “Potter, that was incredible!” he said.

“Amazing!”

“Unbelievable!” Fred and George echoed.

“Party in the Common Room!” They bellowed, lifting Harry onto their shoulders. They started singing an improvised song as they carried him back to the castle: “Harry Potter is our king! Potter can catch anything…” Harry blushed when they started including some off-colour lines about catching girls, but it wasn’t too bad since Katie Bell was laughing hysterically by the end of it.

Harry finally got them to set him down when they reached the Great Hall, where the despondent Slytherins were sitting down to lunch. Malfoy seemed to have only Crabbe, Goyle, and Pansy Parkinson wanting to sit near him. Deciding it was only sporting, he walked up behind him. He was vaguely aware of Hermione and some of his teammates following at a distance.

Malfoy spun around and stood up, glaring at him, but Harry just offered him a hand and said, “Good game, Malfoy?”

Malfoy seemed to consider the offer, but didn’t take him up on it. “Beginner’s luck, Potter,” he grumbled, and he sat back down.

The party was winding down for the afternoon, although it was sure to pick up again in the late evening, probably with some contraband firewhiskey, if the rumours were true. More than a few people decided to take a nap before dinner with all the excitement. Harry and Hermione snuck away to find a quiet place to talk. The Clock Tower balcony once again looked promising, even if it was getting colder in the open air.

“Harry, that really was amazing flying,” Hermione said, “but you about gave me a heart attack up there.”

Harry would have found that funny if it weren’t for the fact that his broom’s antics nearly gave him a heart attack. “I’m just glad I beat Malfoy. I think that’ll wipe that grin off his face for a while.”

Hermione half-smiled. “Harry, your broom…”

“Yeah, I know. I was gonna have Madam Hooch check it over.”

“No—I mean, I know what was wrong. It was Snape!”

“What?”

“Snape was jinxing your broom. I saw it.”

“What do you mean? He wouldn’t do that.”

“Harry, Hagrid said that the only thing that would interfere with a top-model broom’s control charms is powerful dark magic. That means it had to be one of the teachers messing with it, and I was looking, and every time your broom acted up, Snape was staring up at you muttering something. He did it, Harry. And before you asked, I looked at Professor Quirrell, too, and I never saw him muttering anything.”

“Maybe you just missed it,” Harry said angrily. “He would’ve had to have done it before my broom acted up. Maybe Snape was saying the counter-curse.”

“Harry, I know it was him.”

“No, you just want it to be.”

“No! It’s not like that. Listen, remember when you went after the Snitch, and your room still worked? I snuck up behind Snape and used a wandless Levitation Charm to blow his hair into his eyes.”

Harry’s jaw dropped, too shocked and angry to laugh. “You what…! N-no…No! I don’t believe it.”

“Harry, will you just get over your prejudice against Quirrell?”

“Will you get over your prejudice against Snape?” he shouted. “Even if it wasn’t Quirrell, I can’t believe Snape would try to kill me. Not after that message he gave me the first week. There’s no reason for it.”

“Sure there is.” Hermione counted them off. “He doesn’t like Gryffindors. He didn’t like your birth father. He’s obsessed with winning the Quidditch Cup. He’s a Death Eater double agent and needs to keep up appearances…”

“But Hermione, he’s never been any worse to me than anyone else. There’s no reason for him to start up now, and even if he did, trying to kill me is way too obvious.”

“He was trying to make it look like an accident.”

“Well, if he was, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it if a twelve-year-old figured him out.”

Hermione was speechless. Did Harry just put down her intelligence? It took her a minute to notice him walking away. “Harry…Harry, where are you going?”

“Back to the Tower,” he shouted behind him.

“Harry…” she whined, but he didn’t answer. She followed him back.

Harry made a point of sitting on the opposite side of the Common Room from his sister. He had a book in his lap, but wasn’t really reading it. How had this day gone so wrong? He had won the Quidditch match! Against Malfoy! That ought to have been perfect, but then there was his broom going nuts, and it all went downhill from there. But he just couldn’t believe Snape would try something like that. Quirrell might, sure. Or maybe Malfoy—somehow—tried to sabotage him. Maybe he’d got a dark artifact from his father. Actually, that seemed disturbingly plausible.

Harry did feel a little bad about snapping at Hermione, but he was too preoccupied to care much. After a few minutes stewing in his thoughts, he gave up and walked out. Hermione didn’t even notice. He needed to get away. He went back to the Clock Tower balcony and checked to make sure no one was around. He knew he really shouldn’t be doing this without Hermione around to cover for him, but he needed to clear his head. He changed to cat form and lay down by the railing.

Immediately, the storm of his emotions calmed. The cat didn’t feel those things as strongly, leaving him room to think more analytically about the situation. It was a trick he’d used more than a few times at home. With a deep breath, he started thinking back over the day. He really wasn’t being nice to Hermione. She was trying to help him, looking at the events and coming to the best conclusion she could. He still thought she was wrong, but he could have been nicer about it.

He worked backwards, thinking over the events of the match. Had Malfoy stopped jinxing him when he was distracted by going after the Snitch? Had Quirrell stopped jinxing him when Marcus Flint flew into him? Had it really been Snape, and Hermione blocked his line of sight? Was it someone else? All he knew was the way his broom had acted, and that wouldn’t tell him much unless he could look up how the charms on it worked and figure out what the curse was, which was sure to be way over his and probably even Hermione’s head.

He thought back to before the match. He had carried his broom to the locker room. His broom had been locked in his trunk during breakfast. Before breakfast, he had been in the Common Room, where Ron—

He stopped. Another thought started to come to him—not Quidditch-related, but far more pressing. He didn’t want to believe it, but the pieces fell into place unbidden. It made far too much sense to be a coincidence, and the stakes were too high. He had to know for sure right away.

Harry was halfway back to Gryffindor Tower before he remembered to duck into an alcove and change back to human form.

The Common Room by now had mostly emptied out with people headed up to the rooms or taking a stroll around the castle. Hermione was curled up sideways in a chair reading a book with an annoyed look on her face when he approached her again.

“Hermione?” he whispered nervously.

She ignored him.

“Hermione?”

“Oh, so you’re talking to me again?” she said without looking up from her book.

“I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

“No, you shouldn’t’ve.”

“Mione, I need your help.”

“Why don’t you get one of your other friends to help you,” she said, too loudly.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “This is about you know what.”

Hermione looked him in the eye. “Harry, if want to check out that door again, do it yourself,” she whispered back.

“It’s not about the door. It’s about…it’s about my room.”

“Huh?”

“Mione, do you remember what Ron said this morning about Scabbers? Fred and George turned Scabbers green when Percy was ten years old. Percy’s fifteen, now.”

“So? That just means Scabbers is over five years old, then.”

“Yes! Don’t you see? Rats don’t live that long.”

“Well, maybe he’s a magical rat.”

“Yeah, but do you remember how Ron’s Animal Colour Change Charm didn’t work on him…?” Harry looked around again to make sure no one was listening in and crouched down beside the chair behind her head. “What if it didn’t because he’s not really an animal,” he whispered more quietly. “What if he’s really an animagus?”

“Augh!” Hermione slammed her book closed and turned to face him, “Will you cut it out with your conspiracy theories?” She hissed. “The odds of that are astronomical. Probably Ron’s just not that good at charms.”

“But it would make sense. That would explain why he’s lived so long. Just like my form’s got bigger, but it’s still a kitten.”

“Or he’s just a weird magical rat, and you’re being paranoid.”

“Mione, please. I know my rodents. You know how I’ve got that feline sixth sense? Well, even in human form, it’s been telling me all term that there’s something not right about that rat. And think about it. If I’m right, that means there’s a grown man who’s been sleeping in my dorm all year. I need to know for sure.”

“Harry, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking…”

“It’ll be fine. You go up to my dorm and distract whoever’s in there, and then I’ll sneak in and sniff around for Scabbers. If he’s an animagus, we’ll tell Professor McGonagall, and if not, no one’s the wiser.”

Hermione sighed. “If you feel that strongly about it, why don’t you just tell Professor McGonagall and let her deal check it out?”

“I would, but I don’t want Scabbers to get suspicious. I think he’s already on to me. That’s why he always runs away from me when he’s fine with other people.”

“Or maybe he can sense that you’re paranoid and doesn’t like the way you stare at him like a you know what.”

“I don’t think so. Listen, I’m sorry, but I have to try it. It’s gonna keep worrying me until I know. And if you’re right, and he’s just a rat, then we can forget the whole thing.”

Hermione grumbled. It was just her luck that her brother had turned out as stubborn as she was. “It’s too dangerous,” she insisted. “If you really want to try it, you should wait until dinner. Then nobody will be in your room.”

“No, all the teachers will be at dinner too, then. I don’t want to risk anyone hearing about it.” Harry glanced around again, but no one seemed to be looking in their direction. “It should only take a minute. I’ll be fine if you distract whoever’s in the room.”

Hermione sighed again. Scabbers couldn’t really be, could he? No, they could check it out, Harry wouldn’t find anything, and then he’d shut up about it. “Look, Harry, I’ll help you out just so you can be sure, but we need to have a talk about these crazy theories of yours.”

Harry jumped up and smiled. “Thanks, Mione. Let’s go.”

Hermione reluctantly followed him up the staircase, climbed the seven floors to the first years’ dormitory. About halfway up, when no one was around on the stairs, Harry changed to cat form and let Hermione go on a few steps ahead.

They reached the dorm room and peered inside. Ron was the only one in the room, passed out on his bed. Dean and Seamus were probably wandering the grounds somewhere, and Hermione thought she’d heard Neville say something about going to the greenhouses, no doubt to decompress after the excitement of the party. That was what she ought to be doing right about now, she thought—just substitute library for greenhouses.

Harry thought he was in luck. He knew how heavy a sleeper Ron was. He pushed past Hermione’s robes right away and slunk into the room.

“Harry, no!” Hermione whispered. What did he think he was doing? She knocked on the door frame of the room and called out, “Ron.”

Ron didn’t respond. Harry turned around and hissed in protest, but Hermione knocked louder and yelled, “Ron…! Ronald!”

“Huh? Wha…?” Ron grunted groggily.

Well so much for that plan, Harry thought angrily. He needed to finish this fast or hope Hermione did. He sniffed around, picking up the scent of Ron’s fat, grey rat. If he was an animagus, his act was pretty good. He spent most of his time sleeping or chewing on Ron’s sheets. But Harry’s instincts told him different. He padded around the room; he smelled a few mice wandering the tower, but only one rat. Already, his feline sixth sense was triggering stronger than ever.

“Hermione, what are you doing here? You can’t be here,” Harry heard overhead.

“There’s no rule against it.”

Harry eventually the trail under Ron’s bed where his excellent night vision spotted Scabbers.“So what do you want?”

“Harry wants to talk to you in the Common Room,” Hermione lied, not very convincingly.

So close to him now, he caught the rat’s full scent, and his pulse quickened. Scabbers was no ordinary rat. He was definitely an animagus. But there was more, mingled with the smell of magic was something else—something that he couldn’t really define, much less explain, but something that his feline sixth sense pegged as untrustworthy.

“Why doesn’t he just come up here himself?”

“Uh, Fred and George pinned him down—will you just come on?” There was a shuffling of feet as Hermione tried to drag Ron out of the room.

But it was then that Harry realised that he had miscalculated. He’d assumed that Scabbers would be asleep after that wild party, but the lazy rat was a little more alert than he’d always let on.

Scabbers awoke with a sudden twinge of nervousness. That wasn’t uncommon for him. He was in hiding, after all, and it had grown more common in this school year, whenever the boy was around. Rodents had a sixth sense, too. It told them when a predator was near, but Scabbers’s was triggering more than it ever had before. He blinked awake with a jolt, looked around, and saw one of his worst fears (though he had many): a cat. A lone cat he could usually handle if his “owner” was around, but what he saw now made his blood run cold and rocketed this cat to near the top of his list: bright green eyes and an odd white mark on the creature’s head. A white mark in the shape of a lightning bolt.

Squeak! Scabbers bolted even before he had consciously put two and two together, and Harry let his cat instincts take over and gave chase without realising that Ron was still in the room.

“Scabbers, no!” As much as he complained about his rat, Ron didn’t take the sight of him bolting from under his bed pursued by a cat very well. He gave chase himself.

“Ron, stop!” Hermione yelled as she tried futilely to hold him back, but he slipped from her grasp as he tried to follow the animals as they bolted around bed posts and under beds and around and around the radiator.

“Socks, stop it!” Hermione stumbled around, unwittingly cutting Scabbers off from both Ron and the door. Harry used the opportunity to chase Scabbers farther back into the room.

“Get away from him, you mangy cat!”

But Harry couldn’t stop. If he let the animagus get away, he’d never find him, and if he let him untransform, there was no telling what could happen. It was probably only the urge to stay in hiding that had kept him from doing it already.

With a loud crash that she prayed didn’t alert the seventh years on the floor below, Hermione tried to pursue Ron again, but they just wound up tripping over each other. Meanwhile, Harry was closing on Scabbers. The rat was more manoeuvrable, but it was a small room with only one way out. As Scabbers made for the exit, Harry cut him off, pushed him against the wall, and sank his jaws into his upper back, not deep enough to kill him, but plenty deep enough that the rat passed out from shock. Harry felt with his whiskers and made sure he was still breathing.

“Scabbers!” Ron jumped up and tried to run toward him, but Hermione grabbed him by the ankle. “Hey! What are you doing?”

Harry knew he didn’t have much time. He had to get Scabbers to Professor McGonagall before he woke up. He picked the rat up in his jaws and ran out the door, oblivious to the scuffle behind him. But he couldn’t keep that up. His four-legged speed advantage was no good while trying to carry a live rat. When he had descended a few steps, with no one coming up the stairs, he dropped the rat onto his paw and untransformed.

“Harry, you idiot!”

He whirled around to see Hermione and Ron staring straight at him.

“Bugger.”

“Harry?” Ron squeaked in horror.

“Ron, he’s—”

“You killed Scabbers!”

“He’s not dead,” Harry said quickly.

“Ron, be quiet!” Hermione hissed at the same time.

“Oh, Merlin! Harry, how could you!”

“Ron!” Hermione scolded again. But he started to run at Harry, reaching out to grab the rat. She stopped him with a couple of well-placed karate chops and pushed him against the wall. Ron’s eyes widened as he remembered the board-breaking demonstration from the start of term.

“He’s not dead,” Harry repeated.

“Harry Potter turned into a cat!” Ron whined as his brain struggled to process what he’d just seen. “Harry Potter killed Scabbers!”

“Ron, will you shut up!” Hermione clapped a hand over his mouth. “You can’t tell anyone about this.”

Ron grunted a muffled protest.

“He’s not dead!” Harry said again. “He’s just stunned.”

“Harry’s not registered,” she whispered. “He could get in big trouble if anyone finds out about this.”

“Why did you wake him up?” Harry demanded.

“You said the plan was to distract him.”

“He was distracted. He was asleep!”

“Like your screeching wouldn’t have woken him up.”

“He’s Ron. It probably wouldn’t have.”

“Mmpf!” Ron grunted.

“But I was right, he’s an animagus,” Harry said, holding up the unconscious rat.

“What?” Just…what?

“Mmpf?”

“Scabbers is an animagus.”

 “Are you kidding…? Harry, are you sure?”

“Mione, I think I know what an animagus smells like.”

Ron pushed Hermione away. “What the hell is going on?” he shouted.

“Ron, be quiet!” Harry and Hermione said in unison.

Harry stepped closer and lowered his voice, holding up the rat. “Scabbers is an animagus. He’s an overweight man in his thirties who’s been hiding out as a rat.”

“What? He can’t be—”

“Shhh!”

Ron finally got the message and started whispering. “He can’t be. He’s been in my family for—”

“How many years, Ron?”

“A-a-about ten…”

“Exactly. Rats don’t live that long. That’s like two hundred and fifty in rat years.” Ron started muttering to himself incoherently in confusion and growing horror. “Listen,” Harry said, “I’m sure he’s an animagus because I could smell it on him. I’m an animagus too because of some weird accidental magic, but you can’t tell anyone! Only Dumbledore, McGonagall, and our parents know. And we have to get Scabbers to McGonagall before he wakes up or Merlin knows what could happen.” Harry grabbed Ron by the wrist, Hermione quickly grabbed his other wrist, and they dragged him down the stairs. Ron kept muttering to himself most of the way.

“Ron, do you know the Leg-Locker Curse?” Hermione said as they approached the Common Room.

“What?”

“The Leg-Locker Curse. Do you know it?”

“Um, no.”

“What about the Full Body Bind?”

“No.”

“Jelly-Legs Jinx?”

“Uh, kinda. Why?”

“Well, if Harry’s right, we should try to restrain Scabbers, but I don’t trust either of us to cast one of those on a rat without breaking his legs.”

“You really think—?”

“Come on, let’s just hurry,” Harry said.

They slipped through the Common Room without attracting any attention and then ran through the halls, Harry and Hermione still pulling Ron to keep pace, until they reached Professor McGonagall’s office. Harry pounded frantically on the door.

“I’m coming! I’m coming!” a voice called from within after a few moments. The door flew open, and there stood Professor McGonagall, looking even more stern than usual, though she paled a fraction when she saw who was there. “Mr. Potter! Whatever is the matter?” she demanded. With Harry Potter, it could be any number of bizarre things, none of which she would like.

Harry held up the still obliviously unconscious rat. “We caught an animagus,” he said breathlessly.

McGonagall stared at the boy. “What?” Just…what? You can think of a dozen things, and it’s the thirteenth that actually happens.

“Ron’s pet rat is an animagus. I could smell it on him.”

“He—he turned into a cat,” a still-dazed Ron said, pointed at Harry.

McGonagall’s eyes grew saucer-sized. “Inside, quickly!” she hissed, ushering them into her office and locking the door. She whirled on Harry. “Harry James Potter, you told him?”

“It was an accident.”

“Harry wasn’t thinking,” Hermione corrected.

“Hermione messed up the plan.”

“I did not! You messed up the plan. Twice.”

“Mr. Potter, I can’t believe—that was extremely reckless of you,” McGonagall scolded. “You really shouldn’t be transforming at all here.”

“Yes, I know, but can we talk about this later, Professor? I don’t know how much longer Scabbers will be out.”

McGonagall sighed. She was having such a good day, too. Why couldn’t they just share a butterbeer over the Quidditch victory? “You really believe this rat is an animagus?” She took Scabbers in hand and laid him on her desk. “He’s been bitten!” she exclaimed as she looked closer.

“Yeah, sorry,” Harry said sheepishly. “It was the only way I could stop him. And I’m positive. You can smell him yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“That won’t be necessary, Mr. Potter.” McGonagall drew her wand, pointed it at the rat, and spoke, “Veritas Oculum.”

A red aura surrounded the rat, and McGonagall staggered back, keeping her wand trained on Scabbers. “Merlin’s beard, you’re right.”

“He is?” Hermione said.

“He is?” Ron repeated.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Weasley, but your rat is an animagus.”

“You mean a grown man’s been sleeping in my bed for three months?”

“I’m afraid so.” Oh, Merlin, the paperwork on that… “All of you stand back, please. We professors will handle this.” Keeping her stare fixed on Scabbers, McGonagall backed away toward her fireplace. Working by touch, she opened a large urn, grabbed a handful of green powder, and threw it into the flames, saying, “Ravenclaw Head of House Office!”

A moment later, Professor Flitwick’s head appeared surrounded by green flames. “Minerva? What’s wrong?” he squeaked.

“Filius, come through at once. It’s an emergency.”

Flitwick hopped straight through with ease, wand drawn in a duelling stance. “What is it?”

“Mr. Potter…” McGonagall quickly edited the story, “…had suspicions that Mr. Weasley’s pet rat was an animagus. I have performed the charm and am shocked to learn that he is correct. I believe we should reveal and confine him before he can get away.”

“An animagus?” Flitwick squeaked in shock. “Yes, yes, we must. Children, please step through to my office.”

“Can’t we stay, Professor?” Harry asked.

“No, Mr. Potter, it is too dangerous,” McGonagall replied.

“But he’s been in Ron’s and my dorm all term, ma’am. I think we have a right to see.”

“Oh, very well,” McGonagall grumbled, just to end the argument. “But keep the Floo open and be ready to run through, all three of you. Even if “Scabbers’ is friendly, the spell will wake him up, and he will likely be disoriented and aggressive after what’s just happened to him.” The three children stood behind the professors. “Ready, Filius?” the Charms Master nodded, training his wand on the rat. “One—two—three—Homenum Revertio!”

A flash of blue-white light erupted from McGonagall’s wand. When it struck Scabbers, he jolted awake, began to stagger, trying to get away, then flopped off the desk and on to the floor, only to rise up on his hind legs, rippling and growing, until a man stood in his place, wobbling on unfamiliar legs.

Ron gave a cry of horror and fell on his bum.

The man before them was short and fat, with hair so colourless it couldn’t even be dignified as grey and clothes that were grubby and tattered from a decade of wear. He still looked very rat-like, with a pointed nose, small eyes, large ears, and buck teeth much worse than Hermione’s. He stumbled around angrily, still not sure what was going on and in obvious pain from the now sabertooth-sized teeth marks on his back; and in the haze of his mind, his eyes fixed on Harry, and he reacted on a very misguided instinct.

“Potter!” he shouted, drawing a wand from his sleeve.

“Stupefy!” rang out two voices. Two bolts of red light hit the man square in the chest, and he collapsed to the ground. It was only then that McGonagall’s own mind caught up with her.

“Great Merlin! It can’t be…” she exclaimed. “It’s Peter Pettigrew!”

“What!” Harry and Hermione shouted.

“Who?” Ron asked weakly.

“Filius, it is he, isn’t it?” McGonagall asked.

“I can’t believe it myself, but he is,” the Charms Master said.

“Who’s Peter Pettigrew?” Ron asked again.

Harry turned to the redheaded boy. “I thought you’d read the books,” he said shakily. “Peter Pettigrew was one of my birth parents’ best friends. But he’s…he’s supposed to be dead.” Harry turned back and approached the prone man cautiously.

“He must have used his rat form to escape,” Hermione mused. “What are you doing?”

Harry was struggling to get Peter Pettigrew’s tattered overcoat off of him, which turned out to be surprisingly easy, since it tore as easily as if he had been in human form wearing it for ten years in all weather. “He’s a friend, isn’t he? He’s been hurt,” Harry explained. “He’s gonna need Madam Pomfrey after…” he glanced at Professor Flitwick, “…after that cat bit him.”

“Mr. Potter, you should let the professionals—” McGonagall started.

“Bloody buggering hell!” Harry jumped back as if he’d been bitten himself.

“Harry!” Hermione yelled.

At the same time, McGonagall and Flitwick both shouted, “Potter!”

“Look!” Harry was pointing at Pettigrew’s outstretched hand. Where he had pulled away the tattered sleeve of the man’s robe, there was a dull red mark, faded, but easily identifiable as a snake emerging from the mouth of a skull.

“Morgana’s garters! A Death Eater?!” McGonagall gasped.

Hermione clapped both hands over her mouth and staggered backwards until she tripped over Ron and fell to the floor.

“There was a Death Eater sleeping in my bed?!” Ron whimpered. He looked ashen grey, now, like he was on the verge of fainting.

Luckily, Professor Flitwick still had his wits about him: “Expelliarmus! Incarcerous!” The unconscious Pettigrew’s wand flew from his hand, and he was bound by tight ropes in such a way that the Dark Mark remained visible. Then, Flitwick cast a complex charm that caused two thin, self-tightening cords to be tied around his ankles so that he couldn’t get away, even by transforming.

McGonagall snapped out of it and absently conjured some bandages that she bound over the four teeth wounds on his back. Wasting no more time, she pushed the children aside and went back to the fireplace. Resetting the Floo, she threw in another handful of powder and said, “Headmaster’s Office!”

A few moments later, a congenial voice sounded: “Good evening, Minerva, is there a problem?”

“Albus, I have an unconscious Death Eater tied up in my office.”

“Now, Minerva, I’m sure Severus was just—”

“That wasn’t a joke, Albus! It’s not Severus—it’s Peter Pettigrew!”

“What?” Albus Dumbledore said. Just…what? “I…I’m coming through…” A moment later, Dumbledore stepped out of the fireplace, his wand drawn, his silver beard and burnt orange robes quivering with energy, only to come face to face with Harry Potter. His mind started racing. Him? Here? Now? Why? He looked around and saw Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley, then Filius and Minerva, and then, tied up on the floor, a man who was supposed to be dead and was definitely not supposed to have that awful tattoo. How had he even got into the castle? And what was Harry doing here? With the boy around, everything immediately got twice as complicated.

Albus gave Minerva a questioning look: Who knew what, and why, and how?

Minerva got the message. “Filius, would you return to your office, please,” she said gently. “We will need to speak about some particularly sensitive matters here.”

Flitwick shot Pettigrew a suspicious look and reluctantly headed back to the Floo.

“What happened, Minerva?” Albus asked.

She took a deep breath. “Peter Pettigrew is a rat animagus. He’s been hiding out as Mr. Weasley’s pet rat. Mr. Potter captured him just minutes ago.”

“Harry captured him?” Albus thought he knew the answer, but he had to ask: “How?”

“How do you think, Albus? Unfortunately, Mr. Weasley saw the whole thing.”

Albus looked to the youngest Weasley son who was lying on the floor, deathly pale, looking up at him with terror in his eyes. The poor boy must have had quite a shock. “Well, then,” he said grimly, “I was hoping we wouldn’t have to deal with a situation like this so soon.”

“W-w-what?” Ron stammered. “You’re not gonna obliviate me, are you?”

Albus shook his head. That was his old way of doing things, and even then not in front of Minerva. “No, Mr. Weasley, we are not. After all, memory charms were not entirely reliable and were not advised for use on children. “However, I must impress upon you the need for secrecy in this matter. We have kept your friend Harry’s ability a secret for his own protection. It would draw even more unwanted attention than he receives already, and keeping this secret would give him an additional advantage in the event that he is attacked. I know this must be difficult for you, Mr. Weasley, but can we trust you to keep this secret? And to cover for any awkward questions your family may ask?”

Ron took a moment to process this. He hadn’t really had cause to pay attention to the fact that Harry didn’t much care for his fame, but he finally said, “Y-yes, Professor. I-I will.”

“Thank you, Mr. Weasley. Now, as for our rodent friend…” Albus inspected the Death Eater—Peter Pettigrew, of all people! “He’s been injured. What happened to him?” he asked.

“Mr. Potter happened to him,” McGonagall said dryly.

“Harry?” Albus turned to the boy and raised an eyebrow. That was surprisingly violent for an eleven-year-old, which was a bit worrying.

“I’m sorry, Professor,” Harry said nervously. “I changed to cat form to smell him—because he was acting suspicious—but he woke up and tried to get away. I didn’t want to hurt him, but it was the only way I could think of to stop him.”

Albus sighed with resignation. It was just the boy’s animal side showing through. It wasn’t pretty, but his heart was in the right place, so he supposed he shouldn’t be too concerned at the moment. “I see. What happened then?”

Hermione spoke up: “After we calmed down Ron? We brought him straight here, and Professor McGonagall checked him over. I couldn’t believe Harry was right, but…” Another thought came to her. “Professor, if Peter Pettigrew’s alive, that means Sirius Black didn’t kill him.”

McGonagall started at that. She was still amazed at times how these two muggle-raised children could take her by surprise by pointing out the obvious. “Apparently not…” she said apprehensively. “And if Peter Pettigrew’s a Death Eater…Oh, Merlin, Albus, now that I think about it, I’m not sure if Black even got a trial. Do you remember?”

It took a lot to surprise Albus Dumbledore, but he was getting enough to last him the rest of the year today. With wide eyes, he said, “I couldn’t tell you. I certainly don’t remember hearing about one. I was worried about Harry at the time, and I’d just assumed Barty Crouch had the whole thing in hand.”

“Barty Crouch, the one who sent his own son to Azkaban on shaky evidence?” Hermione observed.

“I’m afraid so, Hermione. The very fact that Pettigrew is alive and bears the Dark Mark suggests that Black did not commit at least some of the crimes of which he was accused.”

“You mean Sirius Black might be innocent?” Now Harry looked like he might faint as he finally joined Hermione and Ron in sitting on the floor.

“I’m not sure I’d go that far, Mr. Potter,” Minerva said. “They still got him on those other twelve murders…although seeing this now, I can’t help but wonder if Pettigrew as a Death Eater might have orchestrated the whole thing…”

“Either way, even if Black did get a trial, finding Pettigrew alive will be enough for a retrial,” Albus said. “Minerva, I think we should take this directly to Madam Bones. As I recall, Cornelius Fudge was part of the team that arrested Black. It wouldn’t take much for Lucius Malfoy to ‘convince’ him to interfere, so it would be safer not to give him the opportunity.”

“Yes, probably…” she agreed. “But Albus! If Pettigrew goes to Azkaban, he could tell the other Death Eaters—”

Albus’s eyebrows shot up. “Yes, he could…there’s not much choice, then—we’ll have to Memory Charm him. Hmm…we’ll need a cover story, anyway…alright, listen carefully, please. We will say that Pettigrew was injured by a cat in an unrelated incident earlier today. Harry, Hermione, you became suspicious of his behaviour and captured him using Levitation Charms.”

“Which would have been a better way to do it in the first place,” McGonagall quipped.

“So Harry and Hermione came and told me Scabbers was acting suspicious, and when I went to get him he ran away, but they caught him with magic?”

Everyone stared at Ron. That was surprisingly good, especially given his current mental state. They might just pull this off after all.

“I believe that will work,” Albus said. He waved his wand over Pettigrew and incanted, “Memento Figmentum.” A white glow briefly surrounded the man’s head. “There. He will likely harbour an irrational fear of cats and of you, Harry, from now on, but he should not reveal your secret. Now, I will take Pettigrew to Amelia Bones and try to get an emergency trial arranged for Sirius Black as soon as possible. If she is on top of things as usual, I believe it could be tomorrow. I will be contacting your families, and you will be excused from school to attend.”

Ron’s face lit up in surprise at the thought of being able to get out of school for a day—even if it was a Sunday. Harry’s and Hermione’s faces lit up, too, at the prospect of seeing their parents.

Minerva, however, looked less enthused. “Albus…?”

“I think that’s only fair, since this concerns all three of the children personally.”

Minerva pressed her lips together and hummed to herself. “Perhaps. But given those circumstances, I’m not sure I’m comfortable sending them back to the Tower until we know more. For that matter, it would be safer if we don’t want to tip our hand too quickly…Would you three mind staying in here until we’ve made the arrangements?”

“But what about dinner?” Ron protested.

“I will take care of that. Nellie?”

There was a popping sound, and a small elf with yellow eyes and scraggly brown hair appeared in the middle of the office. “Professor McGonagall is calling Nellie—? Eek!” The elf spotted Pettigrew and scampered behind Minerva’s legs. “Bad wizard! Death Eater!”

“Do not worry, Nellie. He will be removed shortly. Nellie, please have four meals brought here when dinner starts.” She motioned to the children who were finally picking themselves off the floor. “These three will be dining with me tonight.”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall, ma’am.” The elf gave a small bow and popped away, eager to get away from the bad wizard.

“Ah, good. Mobilicorpus,” Albus said. As Pettigrew rose into the air, he continued. “I will take care of our little pest problem right away. Minerva, please tell Filius and Severus to come up to my office at once.” She nodded as he reactivated the Floo. Then, just before he stepped through, he said, “Oh, and fifty points to Gryffindor for ridding the school of a Death Eater. Good evening.”

All three children smiled. Ron and Hermione both thought privately that it would be nice if they could get rid of Snape, too, but they weren’t about to say that in front of McGonagall. Still, fifty points was nothing to sneeze at. It was more than the thirty-three House Points Gryffindor had won from the spread in the Quidditch match.

“Harry,” Hermione said.

“Yeah, Mione?”

“I take back everything I ever said about your habit of chasing mice.”

It was well past dinner by the time Dan and Emma Granger were startled away from their Saturday night television shows by a whooshing sound from their fireplace. They rushed over fearfully, and, sure enough, there was Albus Dumbledore’s face in the flames.

“Dumbledore, what’s wrong? Was Harry hurt in the match?” Emma said.

“No, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, your children are fine. Harry won the match for Gryffindor.”

Dan and Emma grinned with pride at this, but their levity was short-lived. “There’s something else, isn’t there,” Dan said shrewdly. “We could’ve read that in the morning paper.”

“Yes there is. There has been a…very unusual incident.” Dumbledore seemed to steel himself. “This afternoon, after the match, your children apprehended a Death Eater.”

“What?” the Grangers said in unison. Just…what?

Dan was the first to snap out of it. “You let a Death Eater in your school!” he shouted.

“I assume you don’t mean Professor Snape,” Emma said coldly.

From somewhere behind the flames, they heard a small, familiar voice giggle and say, “I told you so.”

“Hermione?” they said.

“Hi, Mum! Hi Dad!” both of their children called through the flames.

“Kids! Are you alright?” Emma said.

“We’re fine, Mum,” Hermione replied. “Things have just got really complicated.”

“Complicated? There was a Death Eater in the school, and you go with complicated?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Granger, if I could possibly impose on you to come through and explain things—and I was hoping you could have your children stay at your house for the night,” Dumbledore went on. “Not because of any further danger at Hogwarts, I assure you, but there are some sensitive political matters in play, and for privacy’s sake, I thought it would be best to get them away from the castle.”

Dan smiled weakly. “Well, we’re certainly not going to refuse. It’ll be good to see the kids again. You might as well come through now, if they’re ready.”

“Thank you, Mr. Granger. Harry, Hermione, please step through the fireplace.”

Dan and Emma waited with anticipation. Despite talking through one several times, their children had never actually travelled by Floo before. They could only guess how that would go. After a few seconds, Hermione staggered out of the fireplace, dizzy and disoriented. A moment later, Harry appeared, but he landed even harder and fell on top of his sister, knocking them both to the floor. Their parents rushed to help them up.

“Are you two okay?” Emma asked as she grabbed both of them in a hug.

“That’s harder than it looks,” Harry mumbled.

Dumbledore stepped through behind them, and the flames changed back from green to their usual crackling orange. He waited politely for them to finish getting reacquainted.

“So you really caught a Death Eater,” Dan said in a hard voice as he held an arm around Harry. “And how, pray tell, did that happen?” He glared at Dumbledore.

“It would seem that this particular Death Eater has been in hiding for some time as your children’s friend, Ronald Weasley’s, pet rat.”

“Oh, no,” Dan and Emma groaned. Dan took his son by the shoulders and said, “Harry, please tell me you didn’t eat him.”

“No! I…I did bite him, but only to stop him from getting away.”

“Oh, Harry…I think you’d better start at the beginning.”

Emma made some tea, and the family sat down to hear the story of the wildest day they’d had since that first one exactly six years earlier. Harry and Hermione started with the Quidditch match to break the ice. Dan and Emma congratulated Harry on his flying, but expressed concern about the trouble with his broomstick. They didn’t mention their theories as to who might have done it in front of Professor Dumbledore, but he did reassure them that Professor McGonagall and Madam Hooch would be looking into it when they had the time.

Thence followed a brief description of the party plus a bit of complaining that they were missing the second half of it. Then Harry told of his suspicions and a play-by-play of the capture of Scabbers. His parents gave him a long lecture about his foolishness in letting Ron see him transform, and another one about how much danger he was in going after a suspected animagus by himself, but Harry supposed he deserved that (and Hermione wholeheartedly agreed).

Then, the real bombshell: the Death Eater in question was none other than Peter Pettigrew, a dead hero, which meant there was a decent chance that the man who was supposed to be the arch-traitor, Sirius Black, was innocent, and he would be receiving an emergency trial at the Wizengamot tomorrow. The political ramifications of that were why everyone involved was being kept isolated. It was nice to have the children over for the night, Dan and Emma agreed, but the circumstances could definitely be better.

Once the Grangers were pretty sure they understood everything, Dumbledore took his leave, by which time it was past time for bed. None of them would get much sleep that night though, and not just because of the trial itself. After all, tomorrow, Harry would be making his first appearance in the Wizengamot. What new changes, they wondered, would that bring?

While Albus was handling the Grangers, Minerva McGonagall thought she was getting the short end of the proverbial stick. Once dinner was over, she had to make the calls and manage a hysterical Molly Weasley along with her husband and five of her children. Unsurprisingly, Percy was taking the news particularly badly.

“You mean there was a grown man sleeping in my bed for ten years?” he yelled.

“And he was a Death Eater, too,” Ron said.

Percy fainted.

Fred and George weren’t much better. They were furious at the news.

“I can’t believe it,” Fred said.

“I know. I really feel cheated,” George replied.

“Betrayed!”

“Double-crossed!”

“What’re you going on about?” Ron demanded.

“That was the greatest prank we’ve ever seen, and it was a bad guy that did it,” Fred explained.

“Oh, is that all you’re thinking about?” Molly scolded when she could get some coherent words in.

“Well, he made Percy faint, and we can’t even feel properly happy about it,” George said.

“What I don’t get is how we never saw it on—oof!”

George elbowed Fred in the side and jumped in, “Plus, how are we ever going to top that?”

Little Ginny looked torn between horror at what had happened and wonder at being caught in the middle of one of her storybooks. A Death Eater had been living in her house for almost her entire life, and then Harry Potter caught him and saved them all. It was hard for her to help being excited over that, and her reaction would have been quite amusing if it weren’t so serious.

Ron, meanwhile, was dutifully keeping his mouth shut about what had really happened, but his mind was reeling. All of the weird things about Harry made sense now—well, not all, but a lot of them—trading for a corned beef sandwich, forgetting to eat his vegetables, not liking dogs, being a “cat person”—Ron groaned when he remembered that one. Harry Potter was somehow both cooler and weirder than he’d ever imagined, but they’d definitely need to talk when they both got back to Hogwarts.

In the end, all the Weasley boys went home for the night. They would be at the Ministry tomorrow, too, and with luck, no one on the outside would would what was happening until after the morning Prophet had run. Then Harry would make the front page two days in a row.

Minerva sighed. It was going to be a long day tomorrow.

The sun was rising on Sunday morning, to the extent that the sun ever shone on the dreary and barren walls of Azkaban.

Padfoot lay motionless in his cell, half-asleep, retreating into his animal mind to stay sane under the weight of the Dementors. Truth be told, we was as glad of his fur coat as his animal mind. The weather was growing colder again.

Padfoot wasn’t one to count days. One could rarely keep one’s head clear enough in here to do so. He wasn’t even sure what month it was—probably near Halloween, he decided. The thought stubbornly stuck to him—it wasn’t a cheerful one.

He was pretty sure he had counted the turnings of the seasons correctly, though. It must be the fall of 1991. Harry would have started at Hogwarts by now. For what little he could force his mind to focus on happy things, he wondered what house the boy was in, and whether he was as good at broomstick riding as his father or at charms as his mother, and whether he still looked like a spitting image of James with Lily’s eyes.

James and Lily.

It was almost like a physical blow as the memory of that horrible night hit him again: the ruined house, Peter’s betrayal, the disastrous confrontation in that muggle street, being buried in this hole in the ground while the rat went free. On some level, he was sort of used to it by now. After all, the memory never fully left him. Not in this place.

He heard incoherent babbling echoing around the prison. The other prisoners were waking up—being louder than usual, in fact. Bellatrix started screaming incoherently for the whole cell block to hear, but then, someone was shouting at everyone to be quiet, and then he saw it: a glint of silver light floating down the cells. Aurors were coming.

Padfoot backed to the corner of his cell and discarded his wet nose and black fur. In his place stood a man, thin, gaunt, and trembling, dressed in rags and looking almost like a corpse with his long, stringy hair hanging limply into his sunken eyes, which showed the only spark of life in him. Immediately, the weight of the Dementors increased, though it lessened as the light of the Patronuses came nearer.

A few seconds later, three Aurors stepped into view outside his cell door. Two of them, Proudfoot and Williamson, had been doing the inspections lately. The third was a newcomer, at least to the cell block: a tall black man in an African-style robe. To his surprise, the newcomer opened the cell door.

“Sirius Black,” the man said in a deep, stern voice, “come with us.”

Black took a hesitant step forward. There were only two reasons that he would be let out of his cell. One was if some jerk in the DMLE decided to give him the Kiss to score some political points, while the other would be so good that even in the light of the Patronuses, he couldn’t think about it clearly enough to name it. “W-w-what’s going on?” he rasped as he staggered out into the corridor, his voice cracking from years of disuse.

The black man motioned with his wand for him to walk forward and said, “Apparently, one Harry Potter discovered that you didn’t get an actual trial, and he decided he wants to see you answer for your crimes personally.”

Harry! he thought, his breath catching. Of course, if anyone had a reason to dig into the details of his case, it would be him—and at only eleven, too! Oh, the boy must surely hate him, but if he was finally getting his day in court, maybe someday he could repair the damage. Sirius Black’s spirits began to lift for the first time in ten years as he was led up and away from the pit of Azkaban and then down to the boats to take him to shore. Away from the Dementors, he felt his mind coming back to him. It was sluggish and fragmented, but the despair wasn’t quite so crushing anymore.

As they stepped into the boat, he spoke up again: “W-what day is it?”

The black man, whom Proudfoot had called Shacklebolt, didn’t look at him, but answered, “Sunday, tenth of November, 1991.”

Sirius Black would remember that day.

The Grangers drove into London and parked where Cousin Ted had recommended in his letter. A short walk away, they met the Tonkses to escort them into the Ministry of Magic. Andi was wearing very fancy plum-coloured robes with a silver W on the chest. They had never seen her out of muggle robes before, and they all thought she looked much more powerful and aristocratic like this. Dora wasn’t with them, but would be attending with Moody, who was heading up security for the trial. Andi and Ted showed them how to get into the entrance: a bank of phone booths connected to the Floos below, where a large number of oddly-dressed people were going in without coming out—as if that weren’t conspicuous.

“Just step inside, tell the voice on the phone your names and that you’re attending a trial. It’ll give you ID badges and Floo you to the Atrium,” Andi explained. She and Ted made to step inside ahead of them.

“Wait? All four of us?” asked Emma.

“Yes—Oh, don’t worry, it’s bigger on the inside.”

Harry’s face lit up. “Like the TARDIS?” he asked.

“What’s a tardis?”

“It’s a spaceship that looks like a police phone box,” Hermione explained. “The Doctor explores the universe with it.”

“Doctor who?”

“Yes!” Harry and Hermione shouted, laughing and pointing at Andi, who now looked extremely confused.

“Kids,” scolded Emma.

“It’s one of our television shows,” Dan explained.

“Oh, right.” Andi and Ted stepped into the booth. After about a minute, they appeared to vanish through the floor.

The Grangers stepped into the phone booth themselves. It wasn’t exactly bigger on the inside, but it seemed to bend and stretch to accommodate the four of them. Sure enough, they stated their names and business and were issued ID badges. And then, without warning, the floor dropped out from under them.

There was a sensation of spinning very rapidly, the air rushing around them. They caught glimpses of buried cables and pipes and Underground tubes and, appropriately enough, other fireplaces, seen from the inside, whirling around them. Dan and Emma clung to their children for dear life and remembered what Andi had once said about all fast forms of magical transport being very uncomfortable. Finally, they hit the floor hard, and the four of them tumbled out of a large fireplace and landed in a heap.

“Sorry about that,” said Ted as he and Andi helped them up. “You get used to it after a while.”

“Come on,” muttered Andi. “Let’s get to the courtroom before too many people notice who just walked in here.”

The Atrium of the Ministry was a beautiful work of art: polished floors, an enchanted ceiling with golden runes dancing across it, an ornate fountain featuring the various magical races. But there was little time to appreciate all this, as the place was already filling up with witches and wizards apparating and flooing in, many of them members of the media, wizengamot members and their families, and interested and influential citizens. The news had spread pretty quickly after the Wizengamot was summoned that there would be an emergency trial for Sirius Black, of all people, and that Harry Potter would be in attendance. In a place as small and well-connected as wizarding Britain, that turned into a media circus very quickly, so Andi and Ted led the Grangers to a lift straightaway, which descended two more floors to a smaller, but similarly ornate hallway.

The Wizengamot Hall was on the lowest level of the Ministry of Magic, below even the Department of Mysteries—or rather, below and to the side. Public information about the Department of Mysteries was sketchy, but it was widely believed that it was carved outward from the Ministry complex on Level Nine because of some naturally-occurring magical formation they were studying. In any case, it was only to be expected that the Wizengamot would want their meeting place to be in the deepest, safest location possible.

There were people milling around down here, too, leaning more toward members of the press. It was here, as they were getting ready to go inside, that Harry’s presence was finally noticed. A crush of reporters and fans appeared around them, but Cousin Andi pushed them away.

“Lord Potter has nothing to say until after the trial,” Andi called out before ushering the family inside. “I’m sorry, but you probably won’t be able to get away without saying something,” she said more quietly. “We’ll help you the best we can. I have to take my seat—or rather your seat, Harry. Ted will stay with you.”

The courtroom—for that’s what it was today—was just starting to fill up. About a dozen wizards in plum-coloured robes were scattered among the seats at one end of the oblong, terraced chamber. Albus Dumbledore sat behind a tall podium in the front row. He gave the Grangers a friendly wave, and whispers broke out as people started to realise who had just entered. Beside him sat a portly grey-haired man with an anxious expression, whose face they recognised from the banners in the Atrium as Cornelius Fudge, the Minister for Magic.

The other three quarters of the room was filling with spectators. Ted led the Grangers to a group of front row sets just to the left of the section for the Wizengamot members. Ted waved as he sat down, and they spotted Dora’s pink hair on the other side of the chamber where she stood next to a horribly-scarred old man leaning on a staff, who had a bright blue eye that kept spinning around and around in his head. He could only be Mad-Eye Moody. The Grangers all shuddered at his piercing gaze.

The courtroom looked like quite the appropriate meeting place for the aristocrats of magical Britain, with carved wooden benches and decorations of polished stone running from floor to ceiling in dizzying patterns. The only things that looked out of place were two chairs sitting in the middle of the ring of seats. They were rough-cut wood and equipped with numerous chains to confine anyone who sat in them.

“Oh, Mum, Dad, there’s the Weasleys,” said Hermione. She pointed to where a harried-looking family of redheads filed in through the courtroom doors. Three of the boys spotted Harry and Hermione at once and waved to them. They led their family through the aisles to sit in the row behind the Grangers.

“Hey, guys,” Ron said. “Dad, this is Harry and his family.”

“Of course. It’s quite an honour. Arthur Weasley, at your service.” The Weasley patriarch was the only member of the family present today whom Harry and Hermione hadn’t yet seen: tall and balding, but with the same flaming red hair as the rest of his family. He shook Harry’s hand eagerly. “Lord Potter, I can’t thank you enough,” he said. “To think we had a dark wizard living under our noses all these years—Molly and Percy have been simply beside themselves. Our boys have told us all about you of course. That was some great flying yesterday from what I hear, too.” He then turned to Dan and Emma. “And you two, you’re muggles, aren’t you? You simply must allow me to buy you a drink after the trial. It’s the least I can do after what your son’s done for us. Please, allow me to introduce my family…”

Dan and Emma shook all the Weasleys’ hands, trying not to be too put off by the over-eager wizard. His boys were a boisterous bunch, but the poor little girl, Ginny, looked petrified by Harry’s presence. They couldn’t help but hope that wasn’t too common among the younger witches. His wife, though, was perhaps the most eager to thank the Grangers. As soon as she was in arm’s reach, Molly Weasley wrapped Harry and Hermione with one arm each and hugged them within an inch of their lives in gratitude for “rescuing” her family.

“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, Lord Potter,” she apologised as she let the addled boy go. “I just can’t believe all this is happening.” Harry straightened himself out and assured her that it was alright.

The hall was mostly filled when another man came walking through the aisles, this one thin and drawn with a slightly scarred face and limp, brown hair flecked with grey. His robes were dingy and had been darned in several places. He was staring at Harry, but not with the same adoring stare most people were giving him. He looked sad and uncomfortable, as if something had shaken him greatly.

The man walked toward the Grangers slowly, and Ted rose to his feet to intercept him. They exchanged a few muttered words and seemed to be arguing until Ted looked over at Dumbledore, who nodded to him, and he stepped aside to let the man pass.

The Grangers looked at the man with great interest as he fixed his eyes on Harry and crouched down in from of him. “Harry Potter…” he said slowly. There were tears in his eyes.

Harry just nodded.

“My name is Remus Lupin…I was a good friend of your parents.”

The Grangers all sucked in a breath. They had heard a lot about Black and Pettigrew, but only a few mentions of a Remus Lupin, the most mysterious of the Potters’ friends. In fact, no one had even mentioned whether he was still alive, and given the war, they’d had no reason to think he was.

“You were…? I—I’m pleased to meet you…” Harry shook his weathered hand gently. “I’m sorry, Mr. Lupin, I don’t really know much about you.”

Lupin sighed. “Please call me Remus if you like, Harry.” No one missed the fact that Lupin was one of the very few adults who used Harry’s first name. “And I’m not really surprised. Our little pa—band hasn’t fared too well. There were four of us in the beginning, you see: your father, myself, Black, and Pettigrew. And…well, you can see what’s happened. I couldn’t believe Black would ever betray us, but it looked for all the world like…Dumbledore sent me an urgent owl this morning and told me what happened. You caught Pettigrew, Harry? You personally?”

Harry nodded. “Yes, sir—Remus,” he said nervously. “I didn’t know who he was, though.”

Remus shook his head and smiled sadly. “So much like your father, Harry…Well, if what I suspect now is true, it’s the perfect irony on Pettigrew…Only, now I fear I’ve spent the past decade hating the wrong friend.” He sighed again and stood back up. “Your family?” he asked, indicating the others.

“Mm hmm,” nodded Harry. “This is my Mum, Dad, and my sister, Hermione.”

Remus started to tear up again at the thought of Harry having a new set of parents as he shook their hands. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to see that Harry went to a good family. I wish I could have taken him in myself, of course, but there were…extenuating circumstances. I only hope I’ll be able to see him from time to time.”

“Of course, Remus,” Emma said. “Any friend of Harry’s birth parents is a friend of ours—as long as they’re not a Death Eater, anyway.”

Remus flashed another sad smile and rolled up his sleeves—both of them, for good measure—revealing several scars, but no tattoos. “Well, as you can see…I’m clean.”

They didn’t have time to speak further, as a bell tolled somewhere in the Ministry, and the entire hall stood as Dumbledore stepped up to the high podium, his plum-coloured robes with special gold trim dancing in the torch light. He raised his wand, which emitted a single loud crack. “Good afternoon,” the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot said solemnly. “I hereby call the Third Special Session of the Three Hundred Eighty-Ninth Wizengamot to order. I want to thank you all for coming on such short notice. Before we begin, I would like to extend a special welcome to our youngest member, who has joined us for the first time after an eleven-year absence of his House. Welcome, Lord Harry James Potter.”

There was loud applause and cheering, and soon, the entire hall was on its feet. Harry felt Cousin Ted elbow him, and he stood as well. He was blinded by camera flashes, and it was a solid three or four minutes before everyone finally calmed down. Harry didn’t think he’d ever get used to people calling him “Lord,” much less this. He hoped this would be a one-time thing. In the chaos, though, he did notice a group of Lords and Ladies who were just standing politely and not applauding. He resolved to keep a close eye on them.

When the hall finally fell silent, and the spectators sat down, Dumbledore asked, “Lord Potter, would you like to take up your seat at this time?”

Harry blinked a couple of times. “I can do that?”

The crowd laughed pleasantly. He may have been a Lord of the Wizengamot, but he was still eleven.

“Lord Potter, as the head of your House, you are entitled to take up your seat at any time after your eleventh birthday,” Dumbledore said with a chuckle, “with the permission of your magical guardian, of course.”

Who also happens to be my proxy, Harry thought. No need to make a mess of that. “I, uh—I don’t wish to change my arrangements at this time, um, Chief Warlock. Thank you.” Harry sat down.

Ted leaned over to him and whispered, “Well done.”

Meanwhile, Dumbledore went on: “Is there any business pending before the Wizengamot?” Of course, he knew exactly what the business was, but he was going by the book.

A monocled woman with greying hair and, Harry and Hermione thought, a familiar square-ish jaw stood up. “Chief Warlock, I have business,” she said.

“Madam Bones,” he recognised her.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it came to my attention last night that there were certain irregularities surrounding the trial of one Sirius Orion Black, then heir apparent to the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black—namely, that he never received one.”

A gasp ran through the courtroom. Apparently, most people thought this would be a “retrial.” That the heir to a Most Ancient House, no matter how guilty, would be imprisoned without trial was unthinkable.

“I move that we adjourn to the Council of Magical Law to hold an immediate trial for Lord Black,” Amelia Bones concluded.

“I second the motion,” Cousin Andi called out, leaping to her feet.

“I have a second,” Dumbledore said. “Without objection, we will adjourn to the Council of Magical—”

“Excuse me, Chief Warlock,” and unctuous voice sounded. A man who seemed to be the leader of the group of wizards who had not applauded Harry stood up. He had pale blond hair, nearly white, descending to his shoulders, and a pointed face with an upturned nose. He leaned lightly on a snake-headed cane, and he was staring coldly at the Grangers.

“Lord Malfoy,” Dumbledore recognised with a barely-suppressed grumble. The Grangers all stiffened, even Dan and Emma.

“I must object to the presence of muggles in the Wizengamot Chambers.” Lucius Malfoy spoke with the same smooth, ingratiating voice that Draco liked to use to get his way. An angry murmur circled the hall at the suggestion, and many people turned to stare at Harry’s family. “I’m sure Lord Potter’s adoptive parents are very nice people…” It was clear he believed nothing of the sort. “…but I cannot condone their being privy to sensitive Wizengamot matters.”

Harry and Hermione were fuming. So were their parents, Lupin, the Weasleys, and many of the other people around them. But Cousin Ted leaned over and whispered, “Just scoring points with his allies. Don’t worry about it.”

Sure enough, his wife stood up again. “Chief Warlock?”

“Madam Tonks.”

“I don’t believe there is any law against the presence of muggles at Wizengamot sessions, or trials of the Council of Magical Law. Moreover, Daniel and Emma Granger are fully authorised as privy under the Statute of Secrecy as immediate family, and they are here at the personal invitation of the Office of Lord Potter—” There was some stifled laughter at that. “—and, if I’m not mistaken, personally approved by the Chief Warlock.” The Grangers were amazed to see a fire in the woman’s eyes that they had never seen before—from Dora, sure, but not Andi. Ted had a goofy grin plastered across his face at the sight.

“You are correct, Madam Tonks. The Grangers’ visit has been approved by the Chair. Lord Malfoy, if you would like to call a vote to overturn that approval…”

Lucius Malfoy didn’t even need to look at the glares he was getting to know how that vote would go. “I withdraw my objection, Chief Warlock.”

Dumbledore nodded. “Without further objection, we will adjourn to the Council of Magical Law. Madam Bones, I yield the Chair.”

The Chief Warlock sat down, and Madam Bones stepped up to the podium. With a crack from her wand, she said, “I hereby call the Council of Magical Law to Order in the matter of the Trial of Sirius Orion Black, and Related Matters.” Another murmur circled the hall at the addition. “Auror Shacklebolt, have the prisoner brought in.”

Sirius Black was led in chains before the Wizengamot. He stumbled as he was dragged along by the aurors, keeping his head bowed to see well enough to keep from tripping over his own feet. He was led to one of the two iron chairs in the centre of the chamber, and the chains leapt into motion to secure him. Once seated, his head lolled to one side, and he looked up for the first time…straight into the haunting green eyes of Lily Potter.

Yes, they were her eyes alright, as sure as anything, and the face they were set into was the face of James as a boy.

“Harry…?” he mouthed, failing to produce any sound from his throat. It could only be his godson. But the boy was sitting with a family he didn’t recognise—a girl about his age with bushy brown hair, a woman with darker, but equally bushy hair who was clearly her mother, and presumably her father with them. Both of the children were in Hogwarts robes, and Sirius noted with a long-dormant spark of pride that they both had red trim. A gaggle of redheads behind them could only be the Weasleys.

But what took his breath away was the look in Harry’s eyes. After what the boy must have been told, they should have been filled with hate, but they weren’t. It was more a look of uncertain appraisal with just a hint of…was that pity? Was it possible he already knew?

He glanced to the side and saw Moony—Moony, who had just as much right to hate him, but he didn’t look like he did, either. He looked nervous and confused as he sat there in his worn-out clothes. He knew something as well. But what had happened? Sirius didn’t dare hope—

“Auror Shacklebolt, bring in the second prisoner,” a voice in front of him called. He snapped his head forward to see Amelia Bones presiding over the court (she must be in charge of Magical Law Enforcement, now), with old Albus Dumbledore sitting beside her. A murmur of confusion began. Then, there were scattered gasps from some of the members of the Wizengamot. Sirius craned his neck to see who was being brought in, and he couldn’t believe his eyes.

“Peter!” He tried to shout it, but fell into a coughing fit. The rat was here! He strained against the chains, trying to throttle him on the spot before coming to his senses. All he needed was some Veritaserum, and it would all be over. Yes, the rat would finally get his. Sirius bit his tongue to be sure it wasn’t a dream, but of course, in Azkaban, he never would have had a dream this good.

“Peter, you traitor!” Sirius barked out.

“Me? It’s him! He’s the traitor!” Peter yelled back, his words quick, like a rat’s squeaking. He strained against his own bonds.

“Silence!” Amelia Bones shouted. Sirius and Peter both stopped yelling. “Let the record show that the second prisoner before the Council today is Peter Pettigrew.” There were shouts from around the hall, which she silenced with a blast from her wand.

Sirius started to scan the courtroom. He looked over the rest of the Wizengamot. Augusta Longbottom was in her son’s seat. Sirius knew from Bellatrix’s shouting what had happened there. He flinched when he spotted Andromeda. Damn, he’d forgotten how much she looked like her sister. She was sitting in the seat he had last seen occupied by James—no surprise—she was the natural choice for proxy. And there was Narcissa sitting in his seat! Had his mother finally kicked the bucket? Barty Crouch and Cornelius Fudge were there, too, glaring at him. They must be still be at the top level of the Ministry. He wondered if one of them was Minster, now. There were others in the audience, too. Alastor Moody was standing guard. He seemed to have lost an eye since Sirius last saw him, and he now had a creepy-looking magical replacement that constantly roved around the room. Beside him was a pink-haired girl who could only be Nymphadora. An Auror in training? He could almost have laughed. Further down, a blond newspaper reporter in hideous lime green robes was looking increasingly gleeful at the proceedings as a quill was writing by itself in front of her.

But Sirius was quickly snapped out of his musings by what Bones said next: “Peter Pettigrew was apprehended last night at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—”

“What!” shouted Sirius, and he wasn’t the only one shouting. He looked back at Harry to convince himself that the boy was alright.

“Order!” Bones roared with another crack from her wand. “He was apprehended on the advice of our own Lord Potter—Order! Order—! Who noted the suspicious behaviour of a classmate’s pet rat—I will have order! As a result of that arrest, Mr. Pettigrew has so far been charged with failure to register as an animagus, criminal use of unregistered animagus ability, and membership in a banned terrorist group.” Before anyone could react to that last bit, she called out, “Auror Shacklebolt!”

The large Auror strode over to the bound Pettigrew and tore back the man’s sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark.

The hall erupted into total chaos.

Sirius’s mind was reeling, barely registering the shouting and screaming around him. “What?” he choked. Just…what? Peter had been at Hogwarts? With Harry’s classmates? Quite possibly in Harry’s dorm room? And Harry had personally found him out?! How was any of that possible? Did Remus tell him something?

No one heard Shacklebolt utter the words, “Evidence for the defence, exhibit one,” in reference to Peter’s Mark, since Lucius Malfoy and his cronies were loudly protesting anything they could make stick, while half of the liberals and moderates were demanding to know how a Death Eater had evaded capture for so long and got into the school. One of the conservatives, Lord Jugson, demanded the arrest of the Weasleys for abetting Pettigrew, which Andromeda and Augusta Longbottom both protested. Lord Nott demanded that Harry be questioned, which was eventually dismissed as unnecessary. When Madam Bones finally calmed the Council again, she went straight ahead with the trial.

“Lord Sirius Orion Black,” she said, “you are hereby charged with the following crimes: membership in a banned terrorist group, high treason, two counts of accessory to murder in the first degree of Lord James Potter and Lady Lily Evans Potter, conspiracy to commit murder in the first degree of Harry James Potter, gross breach of the Statute of Secrecy, illegal use of dark magic, attempted murder in the first degree of Peter Pettigrew, and twelve counts of murder in the second degree of…” and here Madam Bones named the twelve muggle victims of Peter’s curse. “Lord Black, how do you plead?”

Sirius’s voice became quiet and tired, but he looked determined as he responded, “Not guilty to all.”

“Will you submit to questioning under Veritaserum?”

“I will.”

It was at this point that Lord Malfoy stood again and said, “I must object, Madame Bones. Lord Black is a suspected occlumens based on both his record and the fact that he is coherent just hours after being removed from Azkaban. Therefore his testimony under Veritaserum cannot be considered trustworthy.”

There was more shouting from the hall as many liberals protested this move, but the Azkaban card was a good one, Sirius had to admit. Most prisoners took weeks to recover after long sentences. It raised just enough suspicion to kill the idea. Who would have thought that Padfoot would hurt him one day? Granted, he did know some Occlumency, but not enough to beat Veritaserum.

“I would question anybody’s ability to properly guard their mind after that long in Azkaban, Lord Malfoy,” Andromeda countered.

“We want to do this by the book, don’t we?” said a smug-looking man who turned out to be Lord Smith. “Especially after uncovering the unfortunate oversight of a decade ago. I call for a vote on the admissibility of Lord Black’s testimony.”

“Seconded,” spoke a witch whom Sirius didn’t recognise.

“Very well,” said Madam Bones. “On the admissibility of the testimony of Lord Black under Veritaserum: all those in favour…all those opposed…” The vote was close, but a definite loss. “The motion is not carried. I remind the Council, though, that we have a witness to the events in question. Peter Pettigrew, will you submit to questioning under Veritaserum as witness for the defence?”

“N-no, no I will not. I will not defend that traitor,” the rat said. No surprise there. If he’d had money or political allies, Peter could have spilt everything and claimed Imperius, except that Sirius would still kill him. But since he didn’t have either of those, all he could do was to clam up and hope Malfoy and Nott would help him out to save their own skins.

“I believe the testimony of witnesses on the scene will be quite sufficient to settle this matter, Madam Bones, even with these…startling revelations about Mr. Pettigrew. Don’t you agree, Minister?” Lord Malfoy said, giving Cornelius Fudge a pointed look. So that answered one question. Sirius put two and two together and vowed to keep a close eye on this Minister if he got out of here.

“Madam Bones,” the Auror called before Fudge could respond.

“Auror Shacklebolt.”

“I would like to submit evidence for the defence, exhibit two.” He held up a vial containing a silvery liquid. “My own Pensieve memories of the interrogation of Peter Pettigrew under Veritaserum, as witnessed by myself, Auror Scrimgeour, and the Chairwoman.”

“Objection! Self-incrimination!” Lord Malfoy shouted.

“Madam Bones, I remind the Council of the Uniform Trials Act of 1816, which permits the admission of Veritaserum testimony when collected under probable cause and restricted to questions pertinent to the charges filed. I also remind the Council of the War Crimes Act of 1980, which provides significantly expanded leeway in this matter in cases involving war crimes, which includes the case before the Council today.”

Sirius saw Harry and the family sitting with him looking surprised at that. They started whispering intently to Andromeda’s husband about it. It seemed odd that they wouldn’t know about that law. Was the girl a muggle-born, he wondered disconnectedly.

“Madam Bones, I call for a vote on the admissibility of this evidence,” Lord Malfoy said, not bothering with a counterargument of his own. He was quickly realising that he had been outplayed from the beginning. Lord Nott seconded, but the vote went solidly Sirius’s way. Few besides Malfoy’s allies would give any sympathy to a marked Death Eater.

“The motion is carried, and the evidence is admissible. Mr. Croaker, please enter.”

The doors of the hall opened a second time, and Algernon Croaker, the Head Unspeakable, wheeled in a large stone basin apparently filled with water. Croaker gave a small nod to his sister-in-law, Augusta Longbottom, as he walked. He looked a more affable sort than she did, rather like a younger Dumbledore, right down to the twinkle in his eyes, despite having a much less outlandish fashion sense and keeping his iron-coloured hair and goatee trimmed short. But most of the hall was focused on the artifact he was wheeling in. A Pensieve was not that commonly used in the Council, since the projections were usually hard to see, and, more to the point, Veritaserum testimony was almost always sufficient, but the Department of Mysteries did maintain one specifically for this purpose. He brought the artifact to the front of the hall and took the vial from Shacklebolt.

“Mr. Croaker, have you inspected the evidence?” Bones asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Have the memories been modified in any way?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good. I warn you all that the testimony you are about to hear is quite disturbing,” she said. “If any guests wish to leave the trial for this next part, they should do so now.” She was staring directly at Harry. The girl’s family whispered to each other for a minute, but Harry seemed emphatic about staying, and the girl seemed to insist on staying with him. A few people did get up to leave, and it looked like it was a hard-fought battle for the little Weasley girl (a Weasley girl?) not to be sent out of the room.

When the departing witches and wizards had left, Bones said, “Play the memories, please, Mr. Croaker.”

The Unspeakable nodded and poured the silvery liquid into the Pensieve. Letting it mix for a few moments, he drew his wand and prodded the surface. A ghostly silver image of Pettigrew’s head and shoulders rose from the basin, looking very much like he did now, except fighting an unseen person trying to restrain him. The memory began with Pettigrew being forcibly administered three drops of a certain potion and growing strangely still. Then, an echo of Amelia Bones’s voice began speaking.

“What is your name?”

“Peter Pettigrew,” the projection spoke in a flat monotone.

“Are you a Death Eater?”

“Yes.”

“When were you marked as a Death Eater?”

“The thirtieth of October, 1981.”

“What did you do to receive the Dark Mark?”

“I betrayed the Potters to the Dark Lord.”

There were gasps in the hall at this as the renewed suspicions about what had happening in 1981 began to be confirmed.

“How did you betray the Potters?”

“I told the Dark Lord the location where they were hiding under a Fidelius Charm.”

“You were the Secret Keeper?” It was Shacklebolt’s voice that asked that one.

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t Sirius Black?” another voice asked, presumably Auror Scrimgeour’s.

“No.”

Sirius looked back over at Harry. A look of horror was on his face, and the people around him didn’t look much better.

“Who cast the Fidelius Charm?” Bones’s voice sounded again.

“Lily Potter.”

“Why did Lily Potter make you the Secret Keeper when it was believed to be Sirius Black?”

“James and Lily wanted Sirius to be the Secret Keeper, but Sirius believed that was too obvious. He said he would claim to be the Secret Keeper, but would secretly switch with someone else. He suggested me as the least likely person.”

Sirius started crying.

“Did anyone else know about this change?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They wanted as few people to know as possible. They were on to the fact that there was a spy among them, but I think Sirius suspected it was Remus.”

There was a sound of shuffling papers. “For the record, you are referring to Remus Lupin, correct?”

“Yes.”

Sirius heard Remus let out an actual whimper at this revelation. Enough eyes turned toward the man to make it clear who he was.

“Why did you betray the Potters?”

“The Dark Lord ordered me to bring him any available information on their whereabouts.”

“Why were you working for You-Know-Who?”

“I was afraid. The Dark Lord tracked me down and threatened me a year earlier. He said I must serve him as a spy or else die painfully. I already thought he was going to win, so—”

“Coward!” Sirius shouted over the recording.

“Be quiet!” snapped Shacklebolt, prodding him with his wand.

“What did You-Know-Who do after you told him the Potters’ location?”

“The Dark Lord marked me that night and said he had plans to make. The following night, he ordered me to escort him to the cottage, which I did. He ordered me to wait outside while he went in…”

“What happened next?”

“I heard James yell out, ‘Lily, take Harry and go! It’s him! Go! Run! I’ll hold him off—’”

There were more gasps in the hall as the people sat transfixed, none more so than Sirius himself, except perhaps Harry.

“I saw spell fire. I believe the Dark Lord was mostly using Killing Curses. It stopped after just a few seconds. A few seconds later, I heard Lily scream, ‘Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!’ then, ‘Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead—’ then, ‘Not Harry! Please…have mercy…have mercy…’”

Despite Pettigrew’s monotone, or perhaps because of it, those words were the most haunting thing that Sirius had ever heard. Not in all his time in Azkaban had his mind generated that awful scenario. Through his own tears, he saw that Harry’s face was buried in the bushy-haired woman’s chest, and Remus was covering his face with his hands. Indeed, most of the spectators at least shed a tear or two upon hearing Lily Potter’s last words.

“After that, I saw the light from two more Killing Curses,” Pettigrew continued relentlessly, “but after the second one, the cottage exploded. I ran inside, but I found no sign of the Dark Lord. I found only his wand. I took it and apparated away.”

“You have You-Know-Who’s wand?” Shacklebolt’s disbelieving voice said.

“No.”

“Where is You-Know-Who’s wand?” Bones asked after a pause.

“In a disused, but warded sewer pipe in Salisbury.”

There was some sputtering and coughing in the memory at that.

“Did you kill twelve muggles in Salisbury?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“I cast a Confringo at a gas valve cover on the street, causing an explosion.”

“So our cover story of a gas explosion was for an actual gas explosion?” Scrimgeour said.

The question wasn’t intended for Pettigrew, but he answered, “Yes.”

“How did you escape?” Bones asked.

“I used a Shield Charm to protect myself, cut off my finger as a cover, transformed to rat form, and escaped through the hole into the sewers.”

“You are a rat animagus?”

“Yes.”

“Are you registered?”

“No.”

There was a pause as the Amelia Bones in the memory seemed to switch gears.

“Did you see Sirius Black kill anyone that day?”

“No.”

“Did you see Sirius Black attempt to kill anyone that day?”

“Only me.”

“Did you see Sirius Black break of the Statute of Secrecy that day?”

“Yes.”

“How so?”

“He apparated, brandished his wand, and attempted to curse me in front of muggles.”

“Was Sirius Black ever a Death Eater, to your knowledge?”

“No.”

The memory ended abruptly, and a heavy silence descended on the Wizengamot. The horror of what had been done to Sirius was slowly sinking in. Even Malfoy knew he had no way to walk this back. At least Pettigrew hadn’t named any names. Andromeda stood up to speak, but Madam Longbottom beat her to it: “Madam Bones, I move that all charges against Lord Black be dropped immediately.” Many of the Lords and Ladies looked to be in favour of that already.

“Madam Bones, that is preposterous!” Barty Crouch growled, doing his best to save face. “Mr. Pettigrew’s testimony clearly indicates that Lord Black did attempt to murder him and also violated the Statute of Secrecy. Furthermore, we have no definitive proof that he is not a Death Eater.”

“Well, why don’t you roll up my sleeves and actually check for once, Barty?” Sirius demanded.

“That’s enough, Lord Black,” Bones said. “Auror Shacklebolt, do it.”

The Auror quickly pulled back both of Sirius’s sleeves, revealing bare forearms.

“I move that all charges against Lord Black be dropped except minor breach of the Statute of Secrecy and attempted murder in the first degree of Peter Pettigrew,” Lord Smith suggested. The Lords and Ladies started talking over each other again.

“Madam Bones, Lord Black was employed as a Hitwizard at the time, and as such was authorised—”

“I second Lord Smith’s motion—”

“Order! Order!” Amelia Bones silenced the hall. “I have a second on Lord Smith’s motion to drop all charges except minor breach of the Statue of Secrecy and attempted first degree murder. All those in favour…? All those opposed…?” The motion carried easily. “Lord Black, would you like to revise your plea at this time?”

Sirius stared at the monocled witch in confusion. That wasn’t normal procedure. She must want him to do something. Of course, if he was found innocent, then he could be reinstated, and then she was technically his boss. Maybe she’s on my side, he thought. But what could he do? He looked over the Lords and Ladies of the Wizengamot, took another look at Harry, and started to get an idea—perhaps even a Marauder-level idea. He knew a thing or two about Cornelius Fudge, and with the right leverage, it just might work. It would be a small price to pay, all things considered. After all, if he was Lord Black now, he certainly didn’t need the money. All he really wanted was to see his godson.

“Madam Bones,” he said sadly, his voice still rasping, but he was looking at Fudge, “That morning, I was overcome by grief at James and Lily’s deaths, and I was not thinking clearly. I felt like I was responsible, and I could only think of revenge. I should have seen to Harry instead of going after Peter. Yes, I tried to kill him—Peter, that is—but I certainly wasn’t in my right mind when I did it. When he escaped, I lost it entirely. That’s why I was laughing in the street, which I assume is why I was just presumed guilty and shipped off to Azkaban without so much as a questioning, which was not just a perversion of justice, but shoddy law enforcement work.” Crouch was glaring at him again, but Fudge was definitely starting to sweat. Good. “But from what I can tell, that was under the previous administration. I’d really rather put this all behind me and not drag it out, ma’am, so I am willing to plead guilty to a minor breach of the Statute of Secrecy, and I am also willing to waive any right to file criminal or civil charges against the Ministry for denial of rights and wrongful imprisonment in this case—that in exchange for dropping the attempted murder charge.”

“I move to accept Lord Black’s plea bargain immediately,” Andromeda said at once.

“Seconded,” said Madam Longbottom.

“I have a second,” Bones said before too much debate could start up. “All those in favour…?”

The liberals in the Wizengamot gradually raised their wands and lighted them, apparently being persuaded by Sirius’s story, though few people seemed to want to be seen as the first. A few moderates did the same, while Malfoy’s conservatives remained steadfastly motionless. But gradually, more and more wands were raised until, under the weight of the stares, Cornelius Fudge raised his, and many of the moderates followed, though Barty Crouch conspicuously didn’t.

“All opposed…?”

The conservatives and many of the moderates lit their wands. There were plenty of people who weren’t happy to see the attempted murder charge go as a political matter, even if they weren’t particularly against him personally. It would be a close vote. Sirius held his breath as he waited for the verdict.

“By a vote of thirty-two to twenty-six…” said Bones, “the motion carries.”

Sirius smiled as actual cheers erupted from his supporters and from the gallery. Hearing Peter’s interrogation must have given him some good allies—and unlikely ones—light side ones. It was good to be back, he thought for the first time.

“Lord Sirius Orion Black, you are hereby fined one hundred galleons for a minor breach of the Statute of Secrecy, and all other charges will be struck from your record,” said Bones. “I apologise deeply for the actions of this body ten years ago. You’re free to go, and may I be the first to say ‘welcome back’.”

The chains fells away from Sirius’s arms, he rose slowly, shakily to his feet, taking in another round of applause. He didn’t bother even looking at the rat as he took a few uneasy steps forward. He wanted to run to Harry, but he couldn’t run in his present state, and there were a couple things he needed to say first. He approached the podium looked Amelia Bones straight in the eye. “Madam Bones,” he said hoarsely, “I wasn’t the only one who was sent to Azkaban without trial. I think the rest of them were all Death Eaters, but you should probably check.” As the Council digested that nugget, he cast his eyes on his most aloof cousin, sitting next to her husband, and said, “Narcissa…Since you’re here, I take it my oh-so-loving mother is no longer with us…? I just want you to know that the next time we meet…I’ll be wanting my seat back.”

Leaving the blond couple fuming and shaken at having lost their proxy seat, probably without the slightest warning, he crossed the hall and climbed into the seats, stumbling down the aisle toward the people he most wanted to see, even though he dreaded how they might react. Remus was nearest to him. He knew he must look and smell a lot worse than the werewolf did, and that was saying something, since he didn’t look like he’d had too good of a decade himself. Harry was still being held by that Gryffindor girl’s family. Whoever they were, they at least looked like they cared for him.

But Sirius struggled to meet Remus’s eyes as he approached, after all those secrets were aired out. Remus, for his part, wore an expression of terrible regret—but why? He had no reason to think anything but what he was surely told. Finally, when he’d come within arm’s reach, Remus wordlessly grabbed him by the hand and embraced him like a brother.

Sirius slumped as his legs gave out, and he started tearing up again. Merlin, he felt like such a woman right now. “I’m so sorry, Moony,” he whispered.

“Later, Padfoot,” came the simple reply.

“Harry,” Sirius whispered again. He tried to take a step toward his godson, but Remus held him back.

“Wait.” He jerked his head toward Peter. It wasn’t over yet.

“Moving on,” Amelia Bones spoke again. “Peter Pettigrew, in light of this evidence, you are hereby charged with the following crimes: membership in a banned terrorist group, high treason, two counts of accessory to murder in the first degree of Lord James Potter and Lady Lily Evans Potter, conspiracy to commit murder in the first degree of Harry James Potter, gross breach of the Statute of Secrecy, twelve counts of murder in the second degree of…” The twelve muggles were named again. “Failure to register as an animagus, and criminal use of unregistered animagus ability. Mr. Pettigrew, how do you plead?”

Pettigrew gave his rat-like grin and a little nervous laugh as he said, “Is there any chance I could plead down as well, Madam Bones?”

Amelia Bones leaned forward and stared at the rat in the chair. “Mr. Pettigrew, you are currently facing sixteen counts that carry potential life sentences. Are you hoping to plead down to one life sentence?” There was actually some laughter from the hall at that.

The nervous grin vanished from Pettigrew’s face as he launched into a distinctly rat-like tirade: “Alright then, guilty! It doesn’t matter. The Dark Lord will return, and then you’ll all get yours—”

“Silencio,” Madam Bones cut him off personally. “Peter Pettigrew, as per your plea of “guilty,” I hereby sentence you to life imprisonment in Azkaban without the possibility of parole.” She made another loud crack with her wand. “Auror Shacklebolt, take him away.”

As Peter was yanked up from the chair and marched out of the chamber in chains, his eyes wandered back to those who had once been his family. Giving up all pretence, he was downcast under the glares of Sirius and Remus, not to mention the entire Weasley family. Harry had also recovered, more or less, and glared at him as well, but he went one step further. When Peter reached his closest point, he lunged forward, barred his teeth, and hissed at the rat.

Pettigrew flinched.

Many eyes in the hall turned to Harry Potter. Sirius and Remus were duly surprised. Just what had happened with his capture last night? Sirius saw the girl roll her eyes at him. The parents’ expressions were unreadable, and, glancing around, he saw that the Weasleys, the youngest boy excepted, merely looked confused.

Meanwhile, throughout the Wizengamot, though, the Lords and Ladies regarded the boy with great interest. Even Andromeda looked a bit surprised. Here was the legendary Boy-Who-Lived, a boy who at age eleven, had apparently captured the true betrayer of his parents and cleared his godfather’s name all but singlehanded, and, Sirius would later learn, had won his first Quidditch match in the same weekend. Now, mostly to the boy’s dismay, they would add another line to the legend, as he faced down a vicious Death Eater who had murdered a dozen people and frightened the evil man simply by hissing at him. That Pettigrew was undoubtedly the most cowardly of Death Eaters would make little difference. Some might admit it only in private, but if there was any doubt that Harry Potter was going to be a major power player, it was gone now.

“Without objection, I declare this session of the Council of Magical Law closed. Chief Warlock, I yield the chair.”

As Amelia Bones stepped down, Albus Dumbledore rose from his seat and ascended back to the podium, his eyes twinkling like mad. “Does anyone have any further business before the Wizengamot?” he asked.

At this, the Minister stood up. “I would like to make a motion, Chief Warlock.”

“Minister Fudge.”

“As many of you know, Peter Pettigrew was ‘posthumously’ awarded the Order of Merlin, First Class for his assumed services to the war. In light of the revelations of today, I move that Mr. Pettigrew be stripped of this award effective immediately…” There was no doubt that would carry, but Fudge wasn’t done. He seemed to look back and forth uncertainly between Lord Malfoy, Dumbledore, and Harry, as if weighing his options, but he continued, “Furthermore, today we have seen a great wrong done by the previous administration righted by the release of one of our own members from unlawful imprisonment, and the imprisonment of a mass murderer who had gone free. It was the intervention of another of our members that saw this wrong corrected. Therefore, in recognition of his service to the nation, I move that this body award the Order of Merlin, Third Class, to Lord Harry James Potter.”

Sirius smiled broadly for quite possibly the first time in ten years. Youngest Order of Merlin winner in history had a nice ring to it. James and Lily would be so proud. That Fudge didn’t think he had the political capital to include Sirius in that was irrelevant. He didn’t deserve it.

Harry, however, didn’t look too happy—displeased, in fact. He looked at the girl’s family and then back at Sirius questioningly, who smiled even wider and nodded to him. Take it! Don’t worry about me. But Harry didn’t seem satisfied. Just before Dumbledore called the vote, the boy called out, “Chief Warlock, may I speak?”

“Of course, Lord Potter.”

The stares of the entire hall bored into the boy. No dared to make the smallest sound. He seemed tense under the pressure, and understandably so. After all, Sirius would soon learn, this was his first ever public statement aside from the earlier procedural bits. He seemed to think it over for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully and said, “I just want everyone to know that Hermione here was instrumental in the capture of Pettigrew. It—it couldn’t have happened without her.”

Sirius started wondering even more about this Hermione girl. “Harry!” she whispered up at him.

“Hush!” he whispered back. “So…so if the, uh, Wizengamot wants to honour me with this award, you should do the same for her.”

Sirius covered his mouth and doubled over with a soft, but nasty hacking sound. He was laughing for the first time in a decade. That boy was every bit the stubbornly noble and caring sort his mother always was.

“I can testify to Lord Potter’s assessment,” Dumbledore said with a twinkle. “Miss Hermione Granger did, indeed, play a vital role in the capture of Peter Pettigrew. Do I have a motion to award Lord Potter and Miss Granger the Order of Merlin, Third Class for their services to the nation?”

“So moved,” Andromeda said at once.

“Seconded,” said Elphias Doge.

That vote quickly carried as well, with almost everyone but Malfoy’s faction voting in favour.

“Excellent,” said Dumbledore. “I expect the Ministry will work with the Office of Lord Potter to schedule the formal award presentation. Now, if there is no further business—and after some of the fastest decision making I have ever seen in all my years of service—without objection, I declare this Special Session adjourned.” He closed with another crack from his wand.

Slowly, the people began to file out of the Wizengamot Hall, but many were sticking around, watching what Harry would do. Andromeda quickly ran over to the group and used a trick she had picked up growing up with her sisters and conjured a thin, but dense wall of fog around the family, hiding them from view. Remus drew his own wand and cast the Muffling Charm the Marauders had copied from Snape.

“Th-thank you…C-Cousin,” Sirius stammered. He had so many things he wanted to say, and he barely knew where to start. Grasping his oldest living friend by the shoulders, he said, “I’m so sorry, Moony. I thought you were the spy. If I’d known—”

“No Padfoot, I’m sorry,” Remus replied. “I should have figured out that you’d switched. I should have come looking for you or Peter or Harry—”

“No, no, it’s all my—” Sirius stopped and laughed weakly. There was no use arguing it all day. “Look at us Remus. You’re going grey already.”

“Hey, now, you’re looking pretty ragged yourself, Sirius. Finally the flesh reflects the madness within.”

“Well, you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?”

The two men smiled and embraced again.

Suddenly, a portal opened in the fog barrier with a whooshing sound, and a pink-haired witch bounced inside.

“Wotcher, guys, you start the party without me?”

Sirius shook his head. “I can’t believe—is this really little Nymphadora?”

“Just Dora if you know what’s good for you,” she said sternly. “Or Tonks.” Andromeda rolled her eyes. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen either of you two,” Dora deadpanned. “You come here often?”

“I’m surprised you even remember me, Dora,” Remus said.

“Well how could I forget that handsome face?” she shot back, winking at him. Sirius sniggered a little when he saw Remus blush.

But he wasn’t about to waste any more time. He approached the messy-haired boy who had been waiting patiently through this exchange and crouched down so that they were eye to eye. Somehow, he already had a stare even more piercing than Lily’s behind those glasses. The girl’s family pressed in close behind him. “Harry…” he started. He swallowed hard and blinked back tears. “I don’t know how much you’ve been told, but…I’m your godfather.”

The boy nodded with a mask of calm and muttered, “I know.” Sirius wasn’t sure if he was blinking.

“Harry, I am so sorry…I never should have trusted that rat in the first place. I should have been there for you. You shouldn’t’ve had to hear all that from him. You shouldn’t’ve had to be the one to catch him—I can’t believe you caught him yourself! How…? I’m so sorry, Harry. Can you forgive me? Can you forgive your stupid godfather for screwing everything up?”

There was an awkward silence. Harry seemed to be too emotional to speak. Sirius was only vaguely aware that he now on his knees with his hands limp in front of his chest, begging like a dog. When the silence and Harry’s staring became too much, he started babbling again: “But look at you: going to Hogwarts, now, a Gryffindor, naturally, but then, what else would you be…?”

Now, Harry finally opened his mouth: “Well, uh, sir…the Sorting Hat did consider Ravenclaw.”

Sirius barked with laughter. “Just like your mother. And please call me Sirius…if you want to, that is…”

Harry blinked once, slowly, and smiled a little. “Sirius…” he said, as if speaking the word for the first time. “I’m glad you’re not a traitor after all.”

Sirius didn’t even notice that Harry had extended a hand to him as he threw his arms around the boy and started sobbing. Harry went stiff at first, but then loosened up a bit and awkwardly patted him on the back.

“And then there’s this one,” he said, pulling away and turning to shake the hand of the bushy-haired girl. “Harry,” he said slyly, “if you’ve got yourself a girlfriend already—”

“Eww! No! She’s my sister.”

Sirius stood back up, feeling dizzy. “Sister?”

“We adopted Harry six years ago,” the girl’s father said. “My name is Daniel Granger. This is my wife, Emma, and our daughter, Hermione.”

“Adopted…” Sirius mumbled as he shook their hands as well. It was only to be expected, but he still wasn’t prepared for it.

“It’s rather a long story,” Emma added.

“And one that can wait until you’ve spent some time in recovery,” Andromeda jumped in. “Harry’s been doing very well with his new family.”

Sirius wondered why they were being so evasive all of a sudden. Merlin’s beard, Harry hadn’t gone to that awful sister of Lily’s, had he? He was getting a headache, now.

Andromeda took him by the arm. “We should get going,” she said gently. Remus took his other arm to help him stay on his feet. She dispelled the fog barrier and started to lead him toward the exit. Though when she did, she nearly ran into Mad-Eye Moody, who had apparently been keeping nosey reporters away.

“Come on,” he said gruffly. “Bones and Dumbledore want to talk to you.” With a loud clack of a wooden leg on the stone floor, he led them to the exit where the Chief Warlock and Director of Magical Law Enforcement were standing.

“Lord Potter,” Madam Bones started. “I wanted to apologise. I should have warned you more specifically what Pettigrew’s testimony would entail.”

Harry took a deep breath. “Thank you, Madam Bones…but I think I needed to hear it eventually—maybe not in public, but I guess it would have come out anyway, right?”

Bones reluctantly nodded.

“Your niece speaks very highly of you, Madam Bones,” piped up Hermione. “We really appreciate the work you’re doing.”

Amelia Bones’s face lit up. “Why thank you, Miss Granger. I’m glad Susan’s found friends in the two of you.”

Making connections already, Sirius thought with a smile as he caught his breath. Madam Bones took her leave, and then Dumbledore turned to speak to him.

“Sirius, my boy, I must also apologise to you,” the old wizard said. He looked good after those ten years, but obviously tired from the day’s excitement. “If I had been more attentive to Barty Crouch’s actions ten years ago, I could have saved you from Azkaban.”

“No, Albus…” Sirius stopped and sighed. It was doing no good arguing like this. “Everyone made mistakes here. I’m just grateful I got a chance to pick up the pieces…Harry, if your…” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say “parents.” “If your family doesn’t mind, let’s go grab lunch…or dinner…or tea, or…what time is it?”

“No, Sirius, not today,” Andromeda stopped him. “You’re going straight to St. Mungo’s.”

“Am not. I’m fine.” He felt like he was about to pass out.

“You are not. You’ve been under constant exposure to Dementors for ten years.”

“And yet I’m already speaking in complete sentences.”

She wasn’t having it. “Sirius, as a licensed Healer and your next of kin, I insist you spend at least a week in St. Mungo’s to recover from—”

“Bugger that. I want to get to know my godson.”

“You are in no condition to be—”

“And don’t I technically outrank you?”

“Ahem. I believe I may be of assistance,” Dumbledore interrupted. All eyes turned to him. “Next weekend is a Hogsmeade weekend at Hogwarts. If you approve, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, I believe we could arrange a special visit for the four of you to meet with Sirius—and you Remus, if you care to join—while the students are out, say lunch on Sunday at the Three Broomsticks? That would give Sirius a week to recover before the meeting. Remus, I believe that date is available to you as well?”

Remus nodded. The children looked to their parents eagerly. Dan and Emma exchanged a look and quickly agreed. “That sounds lovely,” Emma said. “We’ll look forward to it.”

“Alright,” Sirius said, pouting a little, not wanting to let his cousin know, even as he leaned more heavily on her and Remus for support, that his legs were about to give out. “I guess I can wait one more week. Take me away…Cousin Andi.” He was disappointed when he didn’t get the slightest reaction from Andromeda. That had always got a rise out of her before.

“Brace yourselves,” she muttered, and she opened the door. Sirius was blinded by camera flashes and dazed by shouted questions as the Aurors appeared to have corralled the reporters outside the hall by now. The witch in the lime green robes was front and centre. The group tried to push through, but the crush was too great, and the Minister for Magic had interposed himself in front of them.

“Lord Black, I just wanted to personally apologise to you for the small part I played in your unfortunate imprisonment,” said Cornelius Fudge, eagerly shaking his hand and obviously trying to save face. Sirius suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. If Fudge’s part in that affair was small, he was a hippogriff.

“Thank you, Minister, but I’m afraid I’ve got an appointment with a bed at St. Mungo’s at the moment,” he said shamelessly.

“Oh, of course, Lord Black.” Fudge looked only a little disappointed. “Lord Potter, I think I owe you something of an apology, as well. And congratulations to you and your sister for freeing your godfather and righting this wrong.” He shook the children’s hands for the cameras. Harry looked a bit put off and murmured an acknowledgement.

“Anything you’d like to say to the press, Lord Potter?” a wizard in the press group called out.

“Well…” Harry started. He looked to Andromeda, who sighed and nodded to him. “The thing is…it was six years ago today that my Mum and Dad and sister asked me to join their family. Even now, it’s still the happiest moment of my life. I…I never thought I’d get any closer connections to my birth parents than some distant cousins. But today I’ve met a godfather who was anything but the traitor I thought he was, plus another good friend of my parents. So…as weird as it was, I couldn’t have asked for a better anniversary day.”

There were audible awww’s from the crowd which respectfully started to back away as Harry’s newly-expanded family led him on. Sirius teared up again and wondered where this thoughtful young man had come from. He seemed to be more Lily than James. Andromeda and Dumbledore tried to escort the group through the crowd without too much additional badgering from the press, but it was a difficult route. Sirius told anyone who got close enough that he’d make a statement after he’d recovered, but just before they headed back up to the Atrium, he saw a wizard with shoulder-length white hair and bizarre rainbow-coloured robes come up on his flank. A little girl was tagging along behind him with large silver eyes and enough stringy blond hair to get lost in.

“Lord Black, Xenophilius Lovegood from the Quibbler,” said the reporter. “Is it true that you’re secretly Stubby Boardman?”

That question was strange enough to make Sirius stop in his tracks. “Stubby Boardman…? The lead singer of the Hobgoblins…?” he said, cocking his head. “I don’t remember that. I didn’t think my memory had gone that bad. Remus?”

“Sirius, you’re a terrible singer,” his friend reminded him.

“Right…Nope, it’s not me, sorry,” he said, leaving the disappointed reporter behind.

On Monday morning, Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and four Weasley boys walked into the Great Hall as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. That lasted only until the arrival of the morning papers.

SIRIUS BLACK INNOCENT—RELEASED FROM AZKABAN!

REAL TRAITOR PETER PETTIGREW CAUGHT BY HARRY POTTER!

AMELIA BONES: BLACK NEVER RECEIVED TRIAL!

FUDGE DISAVOWS, DUMBLEDORE APOLOGISES!

BARTY CROUCH SUSPENDED!

POTTER AND SISTER TO RECEIVE ORDER OF MERLIN!

The previous day’s trial was so sensational that even Rita Skeeter didn’t need to fabricate anything, and her lead article was surprisingly accurate. She waxed quite purple at times and downplayed Hermione’s role, but by her standards, it was practically a gift. Even Harry’s quote to the press was reported correctly, although that may have been merely because there were dozens of witnesses.

As people started to read the headlines, there was a great commotion as people flocked to Harry to get his side of the story, and he told anyone who would listen that yes, the articles were mostly accurate, but that Hermione had helped out a lot, too. He also told Neville to thank his Gran for her support.

There was a noticeable change in tone as breakfast progressed, as people read through the articles and the chief source of noise changed from congratulations to awe to awkward comments and condolences when they got to the part where the last words of James and Lily Potter—and Harry’s reaction to them, courtesy of Rita’s quill—were reported.

Luckily, the Slytherins had the sense not to antagonise Harry after reading that article, although the entire hall heard Draco Malfoy proclaim that, “Mother always said Sirius was the white sheep of the Black Family.” He laughed at his own joke. “I guess that’s one mystery solved. He really was a blood traitor all along.”

Meanwhile, Fred and George started singing another verse of “Potter can catch anything!” about catching an evil rat. They later got detention from Snape for rhyming it with “evil bat.”

Ron Weasley was very frustrated as he had to get all the way through classes that day before he had a chance to talk to Harry and Hermione. It didn’t help that Malfoy and the other Slytherins were mocking him in the halls. It was all he could do to keep from throttling the little ponce at times. The other houses were sympathetic, but he still got tired of repeating their cover story over and over again. He barely even noticed it himself when he started embellishing his role in the affair just to feel a bit better about it.

Of course, part of him said he should consider himself lucky. The grief he was getting was nothing compared with Percy. One of the few things more embarrassing than an eleven-year-old boy finding out he’d been unwittingly sharing a bed with a thirty-one-year-old man was for it to happen to a fifteen-year-old boy, and Percy was high-strung enough as it was over the whole thing without people making rude remarks about it. Even he didn’t deserve that.

The chaos of the day also meant that it would be hard to get away from the crowds to talk to Harry and Hermione. But then again, they were very private people, so they might have something in mind. So Ron fought his way through the crush after their last class of the day and tapped them both on the shoulder.

“Hey,” he said. “Is there someplace we can talk alone?”

The two exchanged a look. “Clock tower?” Harry asked.

Hermione shook her head. “Too exposed. Let’s try to find a classroom upstairs.”

They doubled back, ducked around a corner, and climbed a couple of flights to lose the crowd. Ron wasn’t really sure where they were going, but Harry and Hermione had got pretty good by now at evading Harry’s fans, so they were soon on their own. Another couple of turns just to be sure, and they slipped inside an unused classroom, checking first to make sure Peeves wasn’t inside.

Ron eyed the strange pair over for a minute. “So…a cat, huh?” he said.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

“…How did that happen?”

“As far as we can tell, it was accidental magic. Do you remember how I said my muggle relatives didn’t really want me?”

Ron thought back and nodded.

“Well, I couldn’t stand them either. When I was five, I wanted so bad to run away that it just…happened.”

“But how’s that possible? Aren’t animagi like, really rare?”

“Registered ones are really rare,” said Hermione. “I looked up the numbers of known animagi before and after the registry was in place, and I bet there’s more unregistered ones than registered.”

“Professor McGonagall thinks there’s no real limits to accidental magic,” Harry added. “This is just really rare. The, uh…” He glanced at Hermione. “The Sorting Hat told me it’s happened twice before, but we don’t know who or when.”

“Wicked,” Ron breathed. “You’re relatives must’ve been pretty bad, though, if you turned into a cat to get away from them.”

Harry looked very uncomfortable at that. “Well…yeah, they were…” he muttered. “But please don’t mention it. It’s all been taken care of, and we don’t need people prying into it.”

“Sure thing, mate,” Ron said automatically before his thoughts turned to the thing that, rightly or not, had been increasingly bugging him about the whole affair: “I can’t believe they’re giving you both an Order of Merlin,” he grumbled a little.

“Yeah, me either,” Harry said, to Ron’s surprise. Harry sounded even more annoyed than he did.

“What?” Ron said.

“I don’t want it,” Harry said sharply.

“You don’t want it?” Ron said in disbelief.

“I don’t deserve it.”

“What do you mean you don’t deserve it? You caught a Death Eater!”

“I wasn’t trying to. I was going to tell Professor McGonagall and let her take care of it. I’d never go after a Death Eater myself if I could help it. It was just bad luck the way it happened.”

Ron’s annoyance started to get the better of him. “Let me get this straight. You catch a Death Eater without even trying. Fudge gives you an Order of Merlin, and you call it bad luck?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Well, then if you didn’t want it, why didn’t you just say so,” Ron said angrily.

“Ron…” Hermione chided.

“Because I knew Fudge’d never let me get out of it. I bet if he was Minister in 1981, he would’ve tried to give me a First Class for beating Voldemort.”

Ron squeaked in horror, but he quickly regained his composure when Harry and Hermione rolled their eyes at him. “Sorry. So if you didn’t want it, why’d you make them give Hermione one?”

“Because she’d tease me mercilessly about it, and I thought if I have to put up with it, then so does she.”

“Prat,” she said, whacking him in the arm.

“Besides, she deserves one as much as I do.”

“What? No I don’t,” Hermione protested.

“Sure you do. I told them I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“But Harry, that was a lie. I didn’t help catch Pettigrew.”

“Of course you did. That’s what the cover story says.”

“But you know that’s not what really happened. You did all of it.”

“No, I didn’t. I wouldn’t have gone in there at all without you backing me up. And you helped stop him from getting away, and you stopped Ron from grabbing him a couple times.”

Ron sighed at that. “And now they’re giving both of you an Order of Merlin.”

“Ron, I—”

“No, I get it. I was the one screwing it up,” Ron said unhappily.

“No, I was the one who screwed it up, Ron,” Harry insisted. “The plan wasn’t even to catch him. It was just to find out what he was and tell McGonagall. Anyway, it’s not your fault you didn’t know what was going on.”

“Yeah…” Ron grumbled.

“Look, if I could’ve thought of a reason to ask for one for you, I would have. I wanted to ask for one for Sirius just for putting up with ten years in Azkaban, but I didn’t think I could get the votes.”

“Sure you could. You’re Harry Potter!”

“No, I couldn’t. You saw how we barely got Sirius acquitted.”

“I bet you could have convinced them not to give you the award,” Hermione suggested.

“Hey, I’d just heard my parents’ last words!” Harry snapped. “I wasn’t thinking straight.”

No one spoke. Ron and Hermione both looked appropriately shamed by that. Harry slowly relaxed and turned away from them, cat-like, before Ron worked up the nerve to say something.

“Look, mate, I’m sorry,” he said. “I know I shouldn’t be mad. You’re a good guy—kinda strange, but still, good. But it’s kinda not fair, you know? You’re the Boy-Who-Lived, you’re rich and famous, you’re the youngest Seeker in a century, you’re an animagus, you caught a Death Eater already, and they’re giving you an Order of Merlin. It’s not like I can ever top that. Nobody can top that, except maybe Dumbledore.”

Harry gave him his trademark stare. Ron had never noticed until now just how cat-like he acted. “Yeah, well I don’t think that’s any more fair than you do,” he said. “I lose my parents, and suddenly, I’m this great hero, and now everybody I meet stares at my forehead. I’m okay with the Quidditch thing “cause that’s actually something I did myself. But rest of that stuff was just luck.”

“Luck? Really?” Ron asked sceptically.

“Yes, really. Boy-Who-Lived? Pure luck, or else something my parents did. Animagus? Accidental magic. Caught a Death Eater? Screwed up the plan. Order of Merlin? Blame Fudge. I know it’s hard to believe, but I actually like being a normal kid. That’s what I was in the muggle world…” He saw the look on his sister’s face. “Or tried to be?”

“Well, I don’t really get that, but alright, I guess,” Ron said. He wrestled with his next question and finally said conspiratorially, “So, you got any other secrets I should know about?”

Hermione gasped indignantly: “Ron, that’s not very polite.”

“Well, it’s just that I’m already in on the cat thing, so…”

“Sorry, but we try to keep our secrets pretty close under wraps,” Harry said. “You already know more about me than almost anybody, and it’s not like we’re not going to tell you where we live or anything like that.” He glanced at Hermione. Ron heard a strange crackling sound and saw Hermione shrug noncommittally. “I guess there’s one other thing we can tell you. It’s not super-secret like the cat bit, but we don’t really want too many people to know about it…” Ron nodded. “We can both do wandless magic.”

“You’re joking!”

“Nope.”

“But both of you?”

Harry turned around and waved his hand. A book on the teacher’s desk lifted into the air. Hermione immediately followed suit.

“Bloody hell! How can you both be able to do that. I thought only really powerful wizards like Dumbledore could do wandless magic.”

“No, it doesn’t take that much power. It just takes a long time to learn,” Hermione said idly.

“It’s a lot different from using wands, though,” Harry added. “That’s why we always have trouble in Charms. Hermione’s actually better at it than I am. Probably anyone can learn it, though.”

“Wow. Can you teach me?”

“Well, we could, if you want to take the time. It took us two years to be able to do anything interesting with it.”

“Oh,” Ron said, disappointed. “Well, maybe I’ll try. Must be nice, though. I wish I had some kind of rare talent or something.”

Harry looked at his friend uncomfortably for a moment and said, “You don’t need to try to top anybody, Ron. Just do your best at whatever you’re good at.”

“But I’m not good at anything.”

“Sure you are. What about Quidditch? You’ve been helping Hermione with flying lessons, right?”

“Well, yeah…I guess I always thought I’d make a pretty good Keeper,” Ron answered hesitantly.

“So there you go. You got anything else? What else do you like to do?”

“Erm…I guess I’m good at chess, too.”

“Oh, you play?” Harry said interestedly.

Two hours later, Ron was feeling quite a bit better about himself, and Harry and Hermione looked a little shell-shocked.

“And Ron smoked us both at chess,” Harry said when it was all over.

“Yep,” Hermione replied.

Dan and Emma Granger truly appreciated for the first time the perks of having a private Floo connection to Hogwarts. Though it was ostensibly for emergencies, there was nothing stopping Dumbledore from letting them use it for regular transport. Certainly, they could have drove up to Diagon Alley and Flooed from there into Hogsmeade, but why bother when they had a more direct route?

Dan and Emma realised as they tumbled into Dumbledore’s office that this was a very rare treat. Few magical parents ever saw Hogwarts Castle up close after they graduated, and parents of muggle-borns practically never did. Harry and Hermione were already there to help them up when they arrived and took a look around the Headmaster’s office. It was a crowded place, with portraits of previous headmasters filling the walls, books crammed in wherever they would fit, many strange silver instruments twittering non-stop on small tables, and a beautiful red and gold bird eyeing them intelligently from his perch. It was enough to make them wonder if Dumbledore had gone crazy just from living in this space all the time.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” the old man said as they rejoined with Harry and Hermione. “And welcome to Hogwarts. I’m afraid I’ll have to spare you the tour, with the students out and about. I will personally escort you down to the gates. We have a private carriage reserved for you. Sirius and Remus should already be in Hogsmeade.”

“Thank you for allowing us this shortcut, Dumbledore,” Dan said.

“No trouble at all. Whenever you’re ready…” The Headmaster led them down a narrow stone staircase and past a large gargoyle out into the corridor. From there, it was a long stretch of counterintuitive stairs and hallways to reach the Entrance Hall. Dan and Emma had no idea how anyone could navigate in this place, but the students all seemed to handle it just fine.

Unfortunately, their presence did attract some unwanted attention. Seeing Harry and Hermione being escorted through the castle with two adults including a woman who looked quite a bit like Hermione herself, one of the older Slytherins put the pieces together and started yelling, “Hey, what are they doing here? Muggles can’t be in the castle!”

But the boy stopped and quailed when Dumbledore turned and sent him a harsh look. “All parents of students are welcome to visit the school at the invitation of a faculty member, Mr. Jugson,” he said warningly. The boy quailed and took a step back under his gaze. “It is not wise to leap to such rash judgements.”

Jugson turned and walked away very fast.

“My apologies,” Dumbledore said. “I believe you’ve already seen some of the unfortunate prejudices of our world.”

They continued in silence until they passed through the Viaduct and the Long Gallery and into the grounds. The rather inconvenient path to and from the carriage station was designed that way deliberately back when the castle was as much a political centre as a school. Any visitors would have to pass through the grandest parts of the castle in order to get to the important places like the Great Hall and the Headmaster’s office. In modern times, this was undermined somewhat by the fact that almost every witch and wizard in Britain lived there for seven years as a child, and the school received so few outside visitors anyway.

Sure enough, a carriage was waiting for them, set a short distance away from the other carriages that were taking the students to Hogsmeade—a carriage that apparently moved on its own, except…

“What are those things?” Dan said, stopping short.

“What are what?” Emma replied.

“Pulling the carriages.”

“Huh?” Emma, Hermione and Harry all said at once.

Emma added, “Dan, there’s nothing pulling the carriages.”

“Yes, there are. There’s these creepy horse-dragon things.”

“Thestrals, Mr. Granger.” Everyone jumped when Dumbledore spoke. “Quite unique and misunderstood creatures. They can only be seen by those who have seen death with their own eyes.” Dan’s eyes widened slightly as he ran through the relevant facts in his mind. “For this reason and because of their carnivorous diet, they are considered dangerous and unlucky by many wizards, but I assure you ours are quite tame—very much like horses.” The old man flashed a wry smile. “You may pet them if you like.”

“What, seriously?” Dan said, but he cautiously approached the carriage. Carefully sidestepping the beast’s leathery wings, he drew on his admittedly limited experience with horses and petted it on its invisible, scaly snout.

If Emma Granger didn’t know better, she would have thought her husband had gone mad, petting an animal she couldn’t see. In fact, considering her information came from Dumbledore, she wasn’t completely ready to rule it out. “There’s really something there, Dan?” she said.

“Yeah, come here,” Dan said softly. She approached, and he gently took her hand and laid it against a warm, scaly, moving surface that looked like thin air.

“Ah!” she jumped back in surprise. There was a whinnying sound as the thestral also drew back, causing Harry and Hermione to jump as well, but Dumbledore was right that the animal as quite tame. After all of the Grangers had had a turn petting the animal, they climbed into the carriage with Dumbledore and rode down the path to Hogsmeade.

The Three Broomsticks was a crowded, old-fashioned looking inn—smoky and noisy. But the crowd parted immediately for Dumbledore, even before they saw who was trailing behind him. They quickly reached the bar, and a formidable woman in furs and leather looked up and cast a friendly eye over the group.

“Morning, Headmaster, what’s up?” the woman said. “Those two look a bit young to be coming down here,” she motioned to Hermione and Harry.

“A special family gathering, my dear Rosmerta.” Dumbledore replied. “They will be taking a private room for six.”

“Oh, good, there you are.”

They turned around and saw Remus Lupin and Sirius Black standing in the doorway.

Sirius looked much better after a week in St. Mungo’s. He was still thin and leaned on Remus for support at times, but he was clean, his hair was combed, the colour had returned to his face, and the spark of life in his eyes was that much brighter. Even in his weakened state, he already looked much more handsome than he did at the trial—and much more energetic.

“Harry!” the man said as he stumbled forward to hug his godson. The boy seemed more ready for it this time, despite the public scene they were causing, but he still wound up patting Sirius awkwardly on the back. “Harry…” he repeated as he pulled away. “It’s amazing. You look so much like your dad, except—”

“With my mother’s eyes,” Harry finished at the same time as Hermione said, “With his mother’s eyes.”

Sirius looked between the two of them and let out a barking laugh. “You must get that a lot, don’t you?”

“Only from everyone who knew them,” Harry said.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Black,” Dan said, shaking the younger man’s hand.

“Please, call me Sirius. I feel old enough already with all these potions they’ve got me on.” Sirius finished reacquainting himself with the family, then looked to the bar. “Rosmerta, you still running this place?” he called.

“Why, if it isn’t the old troublemaker himself,” Rosmerta said cheekily. “I should lock up the firewhiskey. Come back for your usual, have you?”

“As much as I’d love to, I’m not sure my liver could handle it at the moment,” Sirius said regretfully. He still sounded a bit like he was tripping over his words. “Give us a lunch special for six and six-pack of butterbeer in a private room.”

“Coming right up. Down the hall, all the way to the end.”

A couple minutes later, Sirius, Remus, and the Grangers were seated around an ornate table in the back room, Rosmerta brought in the drinks, and Dumbledore took his leave for the afternoon, promising to leave the carriage to take them back.

“What is this ‘butterbeer’ stuff?” Emma asked suspiciously as she examined a bottle.

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s only two percent alcohol,” Sirius said, taking a swig. “Nobody sane drinks enough to really feel it.”

“A category that does not include him,” Remus quipped. “But it is good stuff.”

“Alright, you two, just the one, then,” Emma told the children reluctantly.

“Ahh…it still seems like a dream half the time…” Sirius mused after taking another swig of butterbeer. “It seems like it was just yesterday you were terrorising the cat on your toy broom, Harry, and now you’re riding a real one, from what I hear.”

Harry grinned. The trial had largely overshadowed his Quidditch victory, but the team had congratulated him again soundly at the next practice. “That’s right,” he said.

Sirius shook his head in awe. “Boy-Who-Lived, Quidditch sensation, and an Order of Merlin coming…we have so much to catch up on…” A pained expression crossed his face. “Look, there’s one thing I need to know about first…Harry,” he said solemnly, “Andromeda told me that Dumbledore had sent you to live with your aunt and uncle after…well, at first…” He trailed off.

“She wanted to let him hear it from you,” Remus explained, “but Sirius was like a dog with a bone all week.” Sirius chuckled softly at that, and, to everyone else’s surprise, so did Harry.

“All I know about Lily’s sister is that she was a horrible human being and hated magic,” Sirius continued slowly. “I can’t imagine that was a very friendly place for you.”

Harry shook his head and softly said, “No, it wasn’t.”

“I don’t know why Dumbledore would want to send you there. It was him, wasn’t it?”

The Grangers nodded. “Something about blood wards,” Dan said. “But they sure didn’t make the Dursley’s into nice people.”

“So they dumped you in the end?” Sirius asked Harry.

“No, I, uh…I ran away.”

“Ran away…?” Sirius said in surprise. “When you were, what, five?” Harry nodded. “Harry, did they hit you?” he said sharply.

Harry hesitated, until he realised that would give it away anyway. “Twice,” he admitted. “The second time was when I ran away.” He wouldn’t tell them about the cupboard if he could help it.

Remus looked angry enough at that, but Sirius, in his unstable state, let out an animalistic growl and said, “I’ll kill ‘em.”

“Whoa, easy, there, Sirius,” Harry said, holding up his hands. Dan and Emma made similar noises, and Hermione let out a yelp. “You just got out of prison. You don’t need to be going back into one.”

“They’re muggles, aren’t they? No one’ll ever catch me,” Sirius insisted.

“No, I mean you’d have to go into a prison to do it,” Harry clarified. Sirius gave him a stunned look. “Aunt Petunia doesn’t get out for another three years. Uncle Vernon in four.”

At the man’s continued stunned look, Dan said, “I think you’ll find that our legal system is quite competent, Sirius.”

Sirius started laughing again. “You already got it taken care of…” he mused. “Sorry, I got a little carried away there. None of that should ever have happened.”

“What’s done is done, Sirius,” Remus reminded him. “Andromeda told us how great Harry’s new family has been.”

Sirius took a deep breath and nodded. “I do want to thank you for looking after him so well.”

“It’s our pleasure,” Emma said. “Harry’s a wonderful son.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Sirius smiled. He raised his bottle high in the air. “To family!”

“To family,” the rest of the table repeated.

“How was your week in recovery, Sirius?” asked Emma now that they were settled in.

“Quiet. Only Remus and the Tonkses to talk to. Andromeda restarted the mail forwarding to spare me getting mobbed by owls, although somehow that guy from The Quibbler managed to slip a letter through to my hospital room asking if I was sure I wasn’t Stubby Boardman. I don’t know what that was about.”

“I checked with Andromeda,” Remus said. “Apparently, Xenophilius Lovegood lost his wife about a year ago, and he wasn’t really all there to start with, so he hasn’t taken it very well.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Emma said. “Was he the one with the rainbow robes? I think he had a little girl with him.”

“Well, be that as it may, I can personally testify to Sirius’s lack of singing ability, so there shouldn’t be any more confusion.”

“Right. Now, enough about me,” Sirius said, clapping his hands. “I want to hear all about your life in the muggle world, and what you’ve been doing in Hogwarts this year.”

“Ah, well, that’s a long story,” Dan said. “It all started on the ninth of November, 1985…”

And so, Harry and his family each took turns telling his godfather and (he was told) his honorary uncle everything that had happened since he first showed up on their porch—only leaving out just what form he had first appeared in. Sirius and Remus jumped in with the occasional anecdote about their school days. After the first few minutes, Rosmerta had brought in their lunches, but the talking continued a long while after that.

“Wait a minute,” Remus said when they got to the end of 1987. “Did you say you started teaching yourselves wandless magic?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “It took us a while, but we’ve both got pretty good at it.”

“Oh really?” replied Sirirus. “How good are we talking about?”

“Well…” she smiled, “here’s one I found last week.” Hermione closed her eyes and held out her right hand. She started whispering to herself, more and more intently, repeating an incantation under her breath. Suddenly, her eyes flew open, and she yelled out, “Lacarnum inflamari!” At once, a ball of blue fire flashed into existence in her outstretched palm.

“Holy—!”

“Jesus—!”

“Bloody hell!”

“Merlin’s saggy—oof!” Remus elbowed Sirius in the side. Both wizards looked on in awe, while Dan and Emma looked a little more worried at their daughter playing with fire with her bare hands.

“Um, Hermione…?” Emma started.

“It’s the Bluebell Flame Charm,” she explained. “It feels like hot water to the touch, except the top is hot enough to boil water. And because it’s not that hot, it can burn all day without fuel. Here—” She carefully passed the little flame to her mother’s palm, who studied it like some small animal she wasn’t quite sure about.

“That is truly brilliant, Hermione,” a grinning Remus said. “I take it that shows up as accidental magic on the Trace?” Hermione nodded.

“Harry, can you do that?” asked Sirius.

“Not quite, but I’ve got most of the first year charms down.” And he proceeded to cut off a chunk of meat and pop it in his mouth, all without touching anything.

Sirius laughed. “Moony, I think I’m dreaming again. That’s amazing, Harry. Your mother taught herself some before she started school, but she was nowhere near that level.”

“Well, I think we got an early start,” Harry said with a smile.

The children started explaining about their self-imposed training regimen that had carried them through the past four years, along with the other highlights of their lives. The plates had been empty for some time by the time they got around to starting at Hogwarts and describing starting their real classes. One of those Sirius wasn’t very happy about.

“What! Snivellus is teaching!” he roared. The Grangers all jumped.

“Padfoot, down,” Remus chided. “Dumbledore hired him right after the war ended. Apparently he’d turned spy for the light. Not his most popular decision, I’ll admit.”

“Not popular? I can’t imagine that ‘man’ ever being fit to teach children. Harry, if he gives you any trouble, I’ve got the perfect spell—”

“Hold it,” Dan and Emma said, cutting him off.

Emma continued, “I won’t be having you telling my children to use magic against a teacher. I don’t know what little argument you’ve got with him, but would I hope we’ve taught them appropriate respect.”

“Sorry…” Sirius said, hanging his head.

“We went to school with Severus Snape,” Remus explained. “He was a Slytherin, and we…got in a few fights. We didn’t like him, he didn’t like us—”

“He and James really hated each other,” added Sirius, “and I know he can hold a grudge. I don’t know if he’d actually try to hurt you, but I’d be carefully around him, Harry.”

Hermione shot Harry a look that seemed to say, You see?

“I don’t know, he’s never been any worse to me than the other Gryffindors,” Harry replied.

“Well, let’s hope it stays that way, but I’m sure he won’t be happy now that you’ve reconnected with us.”

“He did seem angrier than usual in class yesterday,” Hermione observed.

“That could have just been about the Quidditch match.”

“Yes, but you know what happened there.”

“We still don’t know—”

“What happened at the Quidditch match?” asked Sirius.

Harry sighed and debated with himself whether to say anything. “During the Quidditch match, the control and braking charms on my broom were acting up. I kept almost crashing,” he said. The two other wizards’ eyes widened in horror. “Hermione thinks it might have been Snape that did it. But I think it might have been Quirrell, the Defence Professor, or maybe a Slytherin with a dark artifact or something.”

Dan and Emma started. This was new information to them.

“I don’t know, I wouldn’t put it past Snape,” Sirius growled, “even if it was just to win the match and not to hurt you. He knew a lot about the Dark Arts, even in school.”

“But there was also that message he gave me,” Harry countered.

“What message?”

He explained about the message coded in the Language of Flowers and his speculation on its meaning.

“Lily,” Remus breathed. “It’s the only explanation. They were fond of each other for a long time, until they had a big falling out in fifth year. He tried to apologise afterwards, but he’d gone in too deep with the purebloods and Dark Arts by then. But knowing him, maybe he never got over her…”

“Harry,” Dan got them back on track. “If you think someone’s using magic against you—” Sirius nodded in agreement, but looked like he didn’t trust himself to speak.

“I’ve already got Professor McGonagall and Madam Hooch looking into it.”

“Good,” Remus said. “You might want to ask Professor Flitwick, too. But I think if you’re comfortable around Professor Snape, that’s good enough for us for the time being. Right, Sirius?”

Sirius growled again, but he said, “Just be careful around him. So what about the rest of your year?”

They told them about their friends at school and how the classes had been going. Hermione was at the top of the class in everything but Defence, where Harry edged her out, and Potions, where Draco Malfoy did. Harry was getting good marks in everything and was second in the class in Charms and Transfiguration. They had both managed to catch up with their peers in Charms by now, despite having to come at it from the opposite direction from most people and put in some extra work. Harry also mentioned the connections he had made with other children of prominent families and the growing rivalry with Nott and Malfoy. None of that surprised Sirius in the least.

“By the way, do either of you know anyone named Nicolas Flamel?” Hermione asked.

Sirius cocked his head, dog-like. “It sounds familiar, but I don’t remember where from. Why?”

“Dumbledore’s got a Cerberus penned up in the castle to guard something for someone named Nicolas Flamel.”

“Huh. That’s strange, even for him.”

“We think it’s the same thing someone tried to steal from Gringotts this summer,” said Harry.

“Well, I don’t remember anything either, sorry,” replied Remus.

The Grangers shrugged and moved on, finishing up by describing the Quidditch match in all its exciting detail.

“And the rest you know,” Hermione said afterwards.

“Harry, it does me so much good to see that you’re doing so well. I wish I could have been there to see it myself,” Sirius said wistfully.

“I can second that,” Remus added. “But we’re here, now, at least if you’ll have us.”

“Well, we could hardly turn you away,” Dan said with a smile. “And from what we’ve been told, Sirius is still technically Harry’s godfather.”

Sirius beamed. “And a damn good one from now on, I promise you. But Harry, what I want to know is how you managed to catch the Rat without knowing who he was. When Amelia Bones said you found him, I was sure Remus had told you to look for him.”

“Which, of course, I hadn’t. What I want to know how you managed to scare him that much at the trial. He looked terrified of you, even by rat standards.”

Harry bit his lip and shifted uncomfortably. He really wanted to answer, but he couldn’t, for obvious reasons. Still he had a hunch it was important. He turned back to his family and whispered, “Mum, Dad, can I tell them?”

“What!” they whispered back in horror.

“Well, he is my godfather,” Harry whispered again.

“You’re not supposed to tell anyone,” Emma said.

“You already got Ron in on it,” Hermione added.

Remus, who picked up on part of the argument with his keen hearing, said, “Look, if it’s something you need to keep a secret, we understand.” Sirius reluctantly agreed.

Dan and Emma started to say that settled the argument, but Harry tried one more time. He jerked his head toward Sirius and whispered, “Please? He’s obviously one, too.”

That gave the Grangers pause. “What? Harry, are you sure?” Dan whispered.

“Positive.”

Dan looked up at the other two men. “Look, we, uh, I guess we could talk about it, but this really does need to stay secret—”

At this, Sirius raised his wand and lit it, saying, “Marauder’s honour.” Remus quickly repeated the gesture.

“Uh, sorry?” Dan said.

“The Marauders,” Sirius said. “That’s what we called ourselves—the two of us, James, and the Rat. The greatest pranksters of our generation. We were all best friends back then, and no matter how many wild pranks we pulled on each other, the Marauder’s honour was always sacrosanct, at least until the Rat…anyway.”

Dan and Emma whispered to each other some more, but that seemed to be enough for them, if they would keep the secret for the sake of Harry’s birth father. They reluctantly nodded.

“Thanks Mum, thanks Dad…Here’s how.” Harry grinned and pushed himself with his hands, and a moment later, a black and white kitten had hopped up onto the table.

Remus jerked back so suddenly that his chair toppled over. “Bloody Merlin’s galloping gargoyles!” he said as he couldn’t figure out which figure of speech to use.

Sirius just sat open-mouthed for so long the Grangers thought he’d gone into shock. Then he pinched himself, snapped out of it, and started laughing hysterically, pounding the table with his fist.

It took some time for the two men to come to their senses. Harry transformed back to human and settled again into his chair.

“Harry James Potter,” Sirius stammered, “if your father could see you now, he would be so proud. How in the name of all that is magic did you manage to become an animagus at age eleven when it took us till we were fifteen?”

“Um…five, actually,” Harry said sheepishly, to more shocked looks. “We think it was accidental magic…That’s how I ran away from the Dursleys.”

“Accidental?” Remus said in disbelief. “Is that even possible?”

“Well, I did it…And the Sorting Hat said it’s seen it twice before, but it didn’t say who.”

“And here we thought you were just a famous Quidditch sensation. Actually, now that I think about it…” Sirius screwed up his face trying to remember. “Back when we were learning it, I think we came upon an obscure legend that Morgan le Fay was an animagus from birth. I doubt that’s true, but still, maybe she could be one of the two.”

“Maybe,” Hermione said brightly. “We’ll have to look it up. That would be great if we could find a record somewhere.”

“So, you said all four of you were animagi?” Emma asked.

“No, I’m not,” Remus said uncomfortably. “Not everyone can do it. But the other three—”

“We started learning in second year,” Sirius said. Hermione’s ears pricked up at this. “Finished in fifth year. Wormtail—that’s Peter—he’s a rat, as you know. James was a stag. We called him Prongs.” He made a gesture with his hands that looked like antlers. “And as for me—”

“You’re a dog, aren’t you?” Harry jumped in.

Sirius twitched in surprise, but he grinned, drew his legs up, and transformed into a large black dog sitting on his chair, eliciting a squeak of surprise from the Grangers. Harry managed not to flinch. He barked once and changed back. “How did you know?”

“It was kind of obvious, the way you were begging on Sunday. Plus the way you laugh like you’re barking. And that dog with a bone joke.”

“I’ll have to be more careful about that,” the dog-man replied. “I’m not registered, as I’m guessing you’re not, either. Anyway, I was Padfoot. Remus was Moony,” he added without explanation. “But you Harry, a cat! I mean, I could have hoped for a stag, but still, that is just too perfect. Harry, if you ever see that Rat again, eat him.”

“Harry, we don’t eat people,” Emma said quickly, “even if they’re evil.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sirius said. Remus looked very uncomfortable for a moment, but Sirius continued, “You know, we have to give him a Marauder name, Moony. We can’t very well keep him out now that he has an animal form, especially after he got rid of the Rat.”

“True, Padfoot,” Remus said. “What did you have in mind?”

The two men huddled together and whispered to each other for a minute, taking occasional glances at Harry. When they turned back to him, Sirius drew his wand and tapped Harry on each shoulder with it, saying, “By the power vested in me as the senior remaining Marauder, I, Mr. Padfoot, do hereby dub thee Mr. Ratsbane, Son of Prongs. May you use your power only on those deserving of mischief.”

“Let’s keep the mischief to a minimum,” Emma countermanded him. “We’ve had enough of it already for one year.”

“No harm in a little fun, Emma,” Sirius pouted.

“Besides, honestly, being Prongs’s son, I can’t imagine him not getting into something he’s not supposed to by Christmas,” Remus suggested.

“I think our children have reached their quota already,” Emma said dryly.

No one spoke for a moment, and an awkward silence started, until Dan saved them.

“We do hope we can see you at Christmas,” he said. “We’ll be in town—magically speaking, that is. We’re going to the Diagonal Theatre’s Christmas play.”

“Oh, right,” Sirius said. “Andromeda mentioned something about that. What’s all that about?”

“We’ve been talking to Lord Brocklehurst’s great-granddaughter, Mandy, and she recommended it,” Harry said. “They’re doing The Wizard and the Hopping Pot.”

Sirius looked perplexed. “The one where the hopping pot saves the wizard from a mob of muggles by eating them?”

“Apparently, that’s a more recent retelling,” explained Hermione. “The original is all about helping muggles. Cousin Andi’s seen the script, and she thinks it’s going to be pretty good.”

“Ah, yes, I remember now. Well in that case, I’ll be sure to be there—” He shot Remus a look. “We will.” He’d learnt over the years to trust Andromeda’s judgement.

Dan whispered something to Emma, and, after a little back and forth, she nodded happily. “You know,” she said, “Sirius—and Remus—we remember how great it was giving Harry his first real Christmas six years ago. We think it would only be fitting if we had the two of you over for Christmas this year so you can share it with Harry and Hermione. And, frankly, you both look like you’ve got a few Christmases to make up for.”

The children were quivering with excitement. Remus smiled weakly, but Sirius grinned broadly, tearing up a little. “That’s very generous of you Emma, Dan,” he said. “We’d love to join you for Christmas. Right, Moony?”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Remus said with a very uncertain look. “I’m sure you have other family.”

“Just my parents,” Dan said. “They won’t mind. They’ll love to see more magic.”

“You told your parents…? Sorry, I’m no expert, but I don’t think you’re supposed to do that.”

“Technically, we’re not, but what the Ministry doesn’t know won’t hurt them.”

Sirius grinned melodramatically. “You rebels. So you can bend the rules after all. I’m glad Harry met someone who can carry on the tradition.”

“Ha! Bend?” Remus quipped.

“Well, you know what I mean. Thank you all so much.”

“Our pleasure, Sirius. So we’ll see you both, then?” Emma said. “Christmas morning at eight, let’s say?”

Sirius nodded eagerly, but Remus looked reluctant.

“Is there something wrong?” Emma noticed his face. “If you have other plans—”

“No…no…It’s just…Well, it’s my…”

“Furry little problem?” Sirius suggested.

Remus glared at him for a moment, but he answered, “Yes…” and hung his head.

“I’m sorry, what’s wrong?” Emma said.

Remus hesitated again, but he nervously explained, “Well, I suppose you really do have a right to know. I’d really rather you didn’t spread this around, but…” He took a deep breath. “I suffer from a chronic illness—which is not dangerous as long as it’s managed properly, but which does require me to be confined away from other people once a month.”

The Grangers just looked at him, confused. The choice of words seemed odd. Why would he say “dangerous’ and not “contagious’?

Seeing the looks on their faces, Remus took another deep breath and said, “It’s…it’s lycanthropy.”

“Lycanthropy…?” Dan said. “You mean you’re a werewolf?”

“Yes…that’s right.” He braced himself for the inevitable reaction—even people who didn’t have a problem with werewolves on an intellectual level tended to react with fear and disgust in the actual presence of one—but it never came. Even the children wore looks of neutral appraisal.

“You mean like…full moon, silver bullets, and all that?” Dan asked. “Of course—Moony.”

Remus was caught between a chuckle and a groan. They apparently hadn’t read much about the subject. “The silver bit is a myth,” he said. “It doesn’t actually do anything. But, yes, on the night of the full moon each month, I unwillingly change into something like a large wolf with an insatiable desire for human flesh. And it is at that time that I—that the disease, or the curse, if you will, is contagious.

“I was bitten as a small child. It was only by extraordinary intervention on Dumbledore’s part that I was able to go to Hogwarts at all. Werewolves are considered…dangerous to be around. And during the full moon, that’s unfortunately quite correct. In the old days, I’d have to go somewhere far away from people and lock myself in.” He lowered his voice instinctively. “During our school days, that place was the Shrieking Shack at the edge of the village here. However—Sirius you won’t know this, but in 1984, a potion was invented that allows me to keep my human mind during the transformation.”

Sirius choked and spat butterbeer all over the table. “It does?” he said, coughing.

“It does.”

“Remus, that’s wonderful! That’s halfway to a cure!” he said, looking like Christmas had come early. He hugged his friend warmly.

“I can only hope,” the werewolf said with a small smile. “With the Wolfsbane Potion, I can just curl up somewhere private during the full moon. It’s much safer and less painful…when I can afford it, that is. The potion is very expensive and difficult to make.”

“Moony, you’ll never have to worry about that again,” Sirius said firmly. “I’ll pay for whatever you need.”

“You don’t—”

“Don’t you dare turn me down, Moony. Anyone with eyes can see this is the best thing that’s happened to you in the past ten years, and there’s no way I’m going to deprive you of that.”

“Alright, alright, I can tell you’re not gonna let me say no, Padfoot. Anyway, I can understand if Christmas is something of a problem,” Remus said softly.

“Well, when is the full moon—?” Dan started.

“Twenty-first of December.”

“Oh, well, that’s fine, then.”

“Really? You don’t have a problem with…?” Remus said in spite of himself.

“Why not? You said yourself that it’s only dangerous during the full moon.”

“Yes, I did. It’s just that most wizards…well, they’re afraid.”

Dan actually chuckled at that. “Remus, six years ago, we adopted a boy knowing full well that he was a target for dark wizards. By now, ‘werewolf’ barely even registers. We have no problem with you being a friend to us.”

Remus flashed a broad smile. It was so rare to find acceptance in the magical world. But of course, the one person he most wanted hear from had been watching silently through all this. “Harry…?” he stared, but his words failed him.

Harry blinked slowly, then smiled. Remus could see the feline traits showing through now that he knew what to look for. “Remus, I’m a cat, my godfather’s a dog, and my cousin’s a shape-shifter,” Harry said. “Why shouldn’t I be friends with a werewolf?”

“Not to mention,” Hermione added, “That we’ve got a friend who’s half-giant, a teacher who’s a cat, another one who’s half-goblin, and another one who’s dead. Dad and Harry are right. Being a werewolf shouldn’t matter at all.”

Remus shuddered and actually broke down and started crying for the first time in this whole affair. He reached over and hugged both children: “Harry, you have no idea how proud James and Lily would be. You can look past the prejudice, and you found a family that can do the same. That’s truly a rare feat. And I’d love to join all of you for Christmas.”

Sensing the conversation was finally winding down as Remus collected himself, the group started picking up the plates and bottles. “Stay in touch, all of you,” Sirius commanded. “I want to hear about more great magical exploits from you, Pup—or, erm—Cub? And you too, uh…Kitten.”

Harry sniggered at the impromptu nicknames. Hermione seemed less enthused, but said nothing. “It’d be nice if we could show you what we’re doing, instead,” Harry grumbled.

“Yes, it’s too bad we can’t practice with our wands outside of school,” his sister added.

“Oh, you can at my place,” said Sirius with a start. “The Ministry doesn’t police it in magical households. They can’t tell who cast the spell, so they rely on parents to keep their kids in line—not that a lot of purebloods do.”

“What? But that’s not fair!” Hermione jumped in.

“That’s the point. Guess who wrote that law.”

“Well, fair or not, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with that,” Emma said. “I think we’d feel better if we could keep it above board somehow.”

“Well, if you insist, I might have an idea about that,” Sirirus said conspiratorially. “Remus, did you ever get that mastery in Defence?”

Remus grinned. “That I did.”

“Then that makes it easy. You can hire Remus as a private tutor and call it defence lessons. From what I’ve been hearing, no one will question that for the great Harry Potter.” Harry rolled his eyes. “That way, the kids can demonstrate what they’re learning and get some extra instruction.”

“Oh, that’d be wonderful,” exclaimed Hermione. “Please can we do that, Mum and Dad.”

“Yeah, can we? We’ve been wanting to start learning duelling,” Harry reminded them.

“I think that’s an excellent idea,” Dan told them. “We weren’t too happy that we’d have to wait five and half years to see what our children are learning, minus the wandless bit.”

“Great,” said Sirius as they left the room, rejoining the bustle of The Three Broomsticks. “In fact, why don’t you all stay at my place the week between Christmas and New Year’s. It’s the least I can do for my godson, especially after you’re opening your home to us.”

Dan and Emma wanted to remind Sirius that they were only having him and Remus over for a day, but they thought better of it. After all, the Tonkses had done the same for them, too. “I think we can make that work. Where are you staying?”

“Well, at first I thought I’d just leave everything and find my own place—get a flat in London, you know? I never wanted to set foot in my old house again after being disowned by my family. But Andromeda came and talked to me—I’m sure you know she can really drive a hard bargain—she managed to convince me that the best revenge I could get on my family was to take those seven centuries of Black dark magic and blood purity and turn it all on its head—embrace my lordship, turn the Blacks into a light side family, clean up the old house, everything. So that’s what I’m going to do…The fact that she wanted to be reinstated in the family probably had something to do with it.”

Remus snickered. Andromeda Tonks was pretty mild-mannered most of the time, but she had ways of getting what she wanted.

“I could disown Narcissa, too, but Lucius Malfoy’s richer than I am, so it won’t make much difference. I will disown Bellatrix. And I’ll add Dora to the family tree, too. Having a half-blood on the Family Tapestry will have my mother rolling in her grave all by itself.” Sirius barked with laughter to the uneasy looks of the Grangers. “Anyway, it’s Twelve Grimmauld Place in London—but you won’t find it directly. It’s unplottable. Just look for Number Eleven.” Then, he turned and sized up his ragged friend. “And Moony, I insist you come and stay with me.”

Unnoticed by most, two redheaded boys sitting at the bar choked on their butterbeer and spun around whispering, “Moony?”

“Sirius, I couldn’t.”

“Nonsense. It’s no less than James would have done for you and did do for me.”

That one really got to Remus, but the werewolf still looked reluctant.

“Alright, I insist you come and help me clean the place up. According to Andromeda, it’s been empty for six years, and Merlin only knows what’s breeding in there by now. I might have a heart attack if I run into a boggart, and I’m gonna need all the help I can get to have it ready for the New Year’s party.”

“New Year’s party?”

“That’s what I said.”

“Since when are you having a New Year’s party?”

“Since right now. Invite your friends,” he added to Harry and Hermione, who giggled. “So what do you say, Moony?”

“Alright, you got me, Padfoot,” he said slowly.

The two boys at the bar jumped and whispered, “Padfoot!” They started jostling each other.

“You got the map?” One said to the other. “Please tell me you’ve got the map.”

“Of course I’ve got the map,” the other boy said. “Had to bring it, just in case.” The two boys did have permission slips for Hogsmeade, but leaving the option of smuggling contraband back into the castle open called for something a little surer.

“It’s been great meeting you both, Sirius, Remus,” Dan said as the Grangers made to head out to the carriage.

“Likewise, Dan, Emma, Hermione…Harry,” Sirius responded. And after another round of handshakes, hugs, and goodbyes, the Grangers left the pub.

And as soon as they did, two rambunctious redheaded boys ran up to the two wizards.

“Excuse us, Lord Black—” the first said breathlessly.

“Mr. Lupin. We couldn’t help—” the second continued.

“Overhearing—”

“What you—”

“Were saying—”

“I take it you’re the infamous Weasley Twins?” Remus asked.

“The two and only,” the first twin said with a grin.

“We heard your little nicknames—”

“And if you’re really—”

“Moony and Padfoot—”

“You’ll know what to do with this.” The last line was delivered by both twins as they held out a large, but blank piece of parchment. The two men’s eyes widened.

“Well, would you look at that, Moony,” Sirius said. “Didn’t think I’d ever see this again.”

“I always figured Filch’d burnt it, Padfoot,” Remus replied.

“Apparently not. Since these two have it, I’m guessing it still works.”

With wide grins, the two Marauders touched their wands to the parchment and said in unison, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.”

Ink lines fanned out from their wand tips, spreading out of the edges of the parchment, and began to form words:

Messrs. Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs

Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers

are proud to present

THE MARAUDER ’S MAP

Fred and George immediately dropped to their knees and kowtowed to their heroes, exclaiming, “We’re not worthy! We’re not worthy!”

Sirius and Remus both howled with laughter.

“We never thought we’d get a chance to meet you,” one of the twins said.

“This map has been the secret of our success,” the other added.

“Fred Weasley—”

“And George Weasley—”

“At your service,” they said together with another bow.

Sirius laughed again. “Oh, this is great,” he said. “I’ve got to show this to Harry.” At that, he ran out the front door, calling, “Dan, Emma, could I borrow Harry for a minute?”

Sure enough, a minute later, Harry came back in the door with Sirius. They approached the Twins.

“Messrs. Weasley and Weasley,” Sirius said formally. “I would like to introduce you to Mr. Ratsbane…Son of Prongs.”

Fred’s and George’s jaws hit the floor.

“Harry, this is our greatest creation,” Remus said. “The Marauder’s Map. It shows everything that happens in the castle and all of the secret passages.”

“Wow,” Harry said as he examined the tiny dots moving about on the parchment, each marked with a tiny name.

“It’s been a brilliant help to us…Mr. Ratsbane,” Fred said.

“Indeed…” Then a look of horror crossed George’s face. “But if you’re Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs Jr,” he said astutely, “then Wormtail was…”

“Our mutual acquaintance, the Rat,” Sirius confirmed harshly.

“That is just sick!” Fred spat.

“Not worthy to attach his name to this sacred document,” George added.

“No, you’re quite right,” Sirius agreed. “Do you remember the spells to modify it, Moony?”

“I believe so, Padfoot.”

The two men waved their wands over the map, muttering an incantation, and Remus said, “Mr. Moony and Mr. Padfoot have found Mr. Wormtail to be guilty of treason of the highest order: a breach of the Marauder’s Honour, leading to the murder of Mr. Prongs. As such, Mr. Wormtail is hereby immediately and irrevocably expelled from the Marauders.”

Suddenly, the map shuddered, and the ink swirled violently. Harry could have sworn he heard a pained squeaking sound emanating from it. When it settled down again, the first line read, Messrs. Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs.

“Much better,” Remus said.

“Agreed,” Fred and George said. They tapped their own wands to the map and wiped it with a quick, “Mischief managed.” Then they whispered to each other for a moment. “Mr. Ratsbane,” they addressed Harry.

“As much as it pains us—” Fred started.

“And it really does—”

“We think this is rightfully yours.” They handed the map to him.

“We just hope you might let us borrow it once in a while.”

“Uh, sure, thank you—” Harry started.

“Now hold, on,” Sirius stopped them, snatching up the map. “I’m the godfather here, Harry, and it would be very irresponsible of me to entrust you with this kind of power…” He grinned and handed the map over. “So don’t get caught.”

Seven Days in the Life of Padfoot and Moony

Sunday

The moment they walked in the doors of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, Sirius and Remus could feel the evil clinging to them. Even a normal magical household would attract quite a few magical pests after being boarded up for six years, but with so much dark magic permeating the air, it was much worse.

“Ah, home sweet home,” Sirius grumbled. “Remind me again why I came back here?”

“To tear down everything your parents worked for?” Remus suggested.

“Right…well, looks there’s a lot of tearing down that needs to be done.”

That was an understatement. Sirius shuddered as he remembered his last memory of this place: his mother chasing him out the door screaming about all the dark curses she would use on her blood traitor of a son when she caught him, with a promise that his father would do him even worse. He hadn’t thought Twelve Grimmauld Place could get any worse than that, but it had in spades. To start with, it smelled like something had died in here—probably a lot of somethings. And from the twittering and chattering, there were probably a lot of somethings living in here, too: doxies, pixies, and fairies nesting all over, he was sure, chizpurfles burrowing into the magical appliances, and it would be a miracle if there weren’t bundimuns rotting the foundation, plus whatever mutants his parents had created that had run wild with exposure to dark magic.

And on top of that, the house was one big booby-trap on a good day. Paranoid and a little off their rockers even before he’d left, both Orion and Walburga Black liked to jinx things at random whenever they felt like it. And there was no accounting for their terrible taste.

“I can’t believe I really came back here,” he said. “This place is every bit as dark and ugly as I remember it, and then some.” He kicked an umbrella stand made from a troll’s leg with a loud thud.

Suddenly, a screeching voice sounded: “Thieves! Thieves and blood traitors! Mudbloods and filth! Begone from these hallowed halls!”

Sirius froze in his tracks and let out a high-pitched squeak: “Mother?”

A pair of moth-eaten curtains flew apart further down the hall revealing a portrait of an irate old woman. Despite her own screaming, she seemed to have heard Sirius’s voice because she yelled even louder: “Yoooou! Blood traitor! Abomination! Shame of my flesh!”

Remus was still stunned. “What the hell—” the werewolf started.

“Dammit, woman, you nearly gave me a heart attack!” Sirius yelled as he approached the painting. “But I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you!” His weakness and recovery was momentarily forgotten, and a surge of anger he’d long forgotten he possessed came forward. “Shut up!” he grasped the picture frame and tried to lift it off the wall.

But the painting wouldn’t budge and only seemed to yell even more vile curses after the attempt. As his mother screamed out a list of his every supposed failure, he winced under the assault and tried to lift the portrait again. Nothing. It must be stuck to the wall. He drew his wand and tried to unstick it. Still nothing.

“Remus!” he yelled over the racket.

“Lemme try!”

Remus tried a bunch of advanced anti-jinx spells, but the painting remained firmly stuck to the wall. In frustration, Sirius started throwing any spells at it he could think of. Burning his mother’s face off like she had done to him sounded like a good idea, but the spell just bounced off. In fact, he soon learnt that anything useful, from unsticking spells to silencing spells, just bounced off. Maybe he was out of practice, but that painting sure seemed to be doing a good job of fighting back.

The painting started cackling at his failure. An enraged Sirirus cast enough sparks at it that he was lucky the whole hallway didn’t catch fire, but the portrait remained unharmed. He still didn’t have a clue how the spell work on the things had been done, but he did notice that the curtains surrounding the painting were flapping in a non-existent breeze in perfect time with the shouting.

Remus gave up. “What is this thing?” he yelled with his hands clapped over his sensitive ears.

“Some kind of stupid burglar alarm,” Sirius yelled back. Then, he lunged forward and he tried to force the curtains back together. It was as if the force of the shouting was holding them apart. “Moony, help me!”

His friend didn’t need to be told twice. With each of them grabbing one heavy curtain, and with great effort they managed to force them together, and the portrait fell silent.

“Phew, well, that’s better,” Remus said.

“Yeah, for now,” Sirius said as he tried to catch his breath. “I doubt it’ll stay that way for long. Let’s try not to wake her up again. We’ll have to sort it out later…Well, let’s get started. It looks like we’ve got our work cut out for us.”

The two wizards took quiet, careful steps down the dim hallway. They could hear skittering in the shadows, and they swatted at cobwebs as they walked through them. Layers of dark magic swept across them as they advanced. A pair of serpent-shaped candelabras started shooting feeble fireballs at them that probably would have been a serious threat if the charms hadn’t nearly run down. Remus stopped them with a quick flourish of his wand, but he didn’t think they’d be so lucky with the other jinxes.

They’d only advanced a few steps, though, when they heard a series of thuds and a shuffling sound accompanied by low, croaking mutterings. Something was coming down the stairs. Remus stepped in front of Sirius, putting a finger to his lips and whispering “Lumos.” He jumped forward and whipped his wand toward the stairwell.

“Thieves defiling Mistress’s house? Kreacher will show them. Yes he will.”

“Kreacher?” Sirius growled. “Are you still living?”

A very old house elf with sagging skin and ears and mad, bloodshot eyes froze on the stairs, gazing at Sirius in disbelief, a continued muttering to himself. “No!” he grumbled. “Bad blood traitor Master has returned. He should not befoul Mistress’s house. Oh, what she will say. No, Kreacher is dreaming. Kreacher is having a nightmare.”

“Unfortunately for both of us, you’re not,” Sirius snapped. Even the family elf was worse than he remembered. He was filthy, dressed in nothing but a loincloth, and had obviously given up on cleaning ages ago. “I’m back, so you’re gonna have to get used to it.”

“Kreacher’s Mistress will not approve,” the elf croaked back. He started shuffling closer down the stairs. “Mistress disowned Bad Master, cast him out of the family. She will not welcome him.”

“Well, too bad for her. Your Mistress is a painting, and I’m the last of the Blacks, so I’m your master now, and you have to do what I say.” Sirius cracked a slight grin at that.

“Kreacher won’t!” He started yelling. “Won’t won’t won’t! Kreacher will go to Mistress Narcissa. Kreacher won’t go to blood traitor Master Sirius. Won’t won’t won’t—”

“Good Lord, he’s gone mad,” Sirius said loudly. “Maybe I will send him to Narcissa. She deserves him.”

“She won’t take him,” Remus replied. “I’m sure they’ve already got an elf.”

“Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t—”

“Then I’ll free him. If we’re lucky, maybe the shock’ll kill him.” Kreacher was so worked up that he didn’t even seem to notice this.

“And if you’re unlucky, he’ll be free to attack you,” Remus reminded him.

“Won’t, won’t, won’t, won’t—”

“Kreacher, shut up!” Sirius yelled.

The elf clutched at his throat, gagging, and looked up in horror, but fell silent, though he kept mouthing insults and stamped his feet.

“Well, at least we know he’s definitely mine,” Sirius deadpanned. “So what do you think I should do with him?”

“I don’t know. Try setting him cleaning for now. If we’re lucky, maybe he’ll snap out of it.”

“Fine,” he sighed. “Kreacher, I order you to help us clean up this house.”

The elf looked up with an expression of deepest loathing and, still silenced, mouthed something that was clearly meant to be, “Kreacher must do as Master wishes,” except accompanied by a few choice insults that would have made a sailor blush.

The work was slow going—and dangerous. Sirius still needed to stop and rest frequently. The magical grime was so thick here that normal cleaning spells barely had any effect, and it was only because Remus the dark creature expert was there that they were able to recognise all of the things that tried to bite them. At one point, they were attacked by three nasty chameleon ghouls at once and were forced back down the stairs before they won out. That largely put them off exploring. Even on the ground floor, they had to beat a hasty retreat from the dining room when the curtains sprang to life and tried to suffocate them, which was compounded by the swarm of pixies that flew out of them.

The surviving Marauders bedded on mats in the kitchen that night, setting up alarm charms in case Kreacher or something worse wandered too close. They also put silencing charms on the area so that Sirius’s screams wouldn’t wake anything up. Remus had sat by him a couple of nights in the hospital, and the screams were as haunting as anything. Being in this gloomy place wouldn’t help. The kitchen was actually the easiest space to clean. Even Orion and Walburga Black knew the importance of not casting too many curses around the food, and they could just junk most of what was in there. The rot had kept away all but the hardiest pests and had long since crumbled to dust itself, and most of the magical appliances were a total loss once the chizpurfles had got through with them and moved on. Sirius and Remus started a junk pile with them in the alleyway in back of the house.

The two men fell asleep that night making plans to wage war on the House of Black—plans which largely consisted of digging in at the kitchen and working their way up.

Monday

“Padfoot, maybe we should get some professional help with this.”

“Come on, Moony, we fought Voldemort together. I think we can handle my house.”

“I’m not so sure.”

The kitchen needed quite a bit more cleaning even after making it safe enough to sleep in, not to mention that rats and tarantulas kept wandering in from other parts of the house. Sirius was still so jumpy around rats that he made a mess of them every time he saw one. Kreacher seemed to have shacked up in the boiler room and resisted all serious attempts to do anything with that. The pantry was cleaned out of everything that was past its use-by date, which included about half of Kreacher’s meagre food supply, which already seemed like it was barely enough to keep the elf alive. Sirius had swallowed his pride and allowed Remus to escort him to the grocery store. (“I don’t think it’s safe for anyone to be in that house alone,” he’d said.)

The Floo in the kitchen was so choked with ash and dust that it was quite possibly an explosion hazard, and they would need to have a workman come in to have it reconnected. And the small toilet off the kitchen was truly frightening in ways that the pair could not fully describe. Something had repeatedly sprung a leak and then become disgustingly gunked up, and there were varieties of fungus in there that Remus had never even heard of, some of which proved to be carnivorous. Sirius’s preferred solution of “Oh, dear sweet Merlin, kill it! Kill it with fire!” proved to be ill-advised, since they were in the basement, the ventilation wasn’t working right, and Remus was pretty sure there was something toxic in the resulting smoke.

“You almost landed back in the hospital, and it’s only the second day,” he chided.

“So I’m out of practice. It can’t get much worse.”

Remus groaned loudly. That was the one thing not to say in this situation.

Tuesday

“Padfoot, I’m not going to be able to stay here on Thursday, and I don’t think you should either. It’s dangerous enough with two of us here.”

The dining room had been much worse than the kitchen. Practically everything seemed to be infested, booby-trapped or both. The one bright spot was that they rooted out that nest of giant tarantulas. On the other hand, they got pummelled by heavy bolts shooting out of an old grandfather clock. They also woke up the portrait of Walburga Black multiple times.

“Why? What’s on Thursday?” Sirius asked as he nursed a bruise on his forehead.

“The full moon, remember?”

“Oh, right. But what about your potion?”

“I didn’t start it early enough this month. I’ll only be partially tamed. I won’t be able to stay in a populated area.”

“Ah…well…we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we. What do you say we go to the Shrieking Shack for old times’ sake? I hear the people in Hogsmeade are starting to question whether it’s really haunted.”

Remus sighed. “Fine. If it’ll get you out of this death trap for a day, I’m game.”

“No, you’re a hunter.”

Remus chuckled. That was one he hadn’t heard in a long time—and cleverer than usual, especially given his friend’s current state.

They were interrupted from their work by a hooting from the window, where they saw a beautiful snowy owl looking into the dining room disapprovingly.

“Who’d be writing you here,” Remus wondered.

Sirius shrugged and took the note from the owl. He opened it, saw two types of handwriting interspersed, and glanced down at the bottom. “Oh, it’s from the cubs,” he said, perking up. He read the letter aloud, his voice cracking slightly:

Dear Sirius (and Remus if you ’re there),

We hope you ’re feeling better. You still looked a little under the weather on Saturday. And we hope the cleaning isn’t giving you too much trouble. Professor Quirrell told us about all the magical pests that can congregate when a magical house is abandoned.

Things are settling back down in the castle. It was pretty crazy last week right after the trial, but now, it ’s mostly just back to classes. We’ve been watching the Map a little. It’s really neat, but Hermione doesn’t want to use it to sneak out.

Maybe we can use it to avoid Harry ’s fans the next time he catches a Death Eater.

Ha ha, Hermione.

Sirius, Cousin Andi sent some charmed, eyes-only Wizengamot stationery keyed to her and to our parents so we can send messages about our secrets—you know which. Could you please send us some that ’s keyed to you? We’ll be getting some keyed to us over Christmas hols. Then we’ll be able to write more freely. Thanks.

Love from Harry and Hermione

“Nice of them to write so soon,” Sirius said cheerfully.

“Of course, when they want something,” Remus said wryly.

“Who cares? I can probably send them some stationery this week. Actually, I think the mirrors are around here somewhere. Those would be more secure. Keep an eye out for them. We can give them one for Christmas.”

“I think they’d like that. I’ll—”

They were interrupted by the curtains springing to life again.

“Back! Back I say!” Sirius barked. Then he changed into Padfoot and started chewing on them.

Wednesday

“Padfoot, this isn’t going to work.”

“What’s wrong, Moony? I thought we were doing pretty well. No serious injuries today. I think we’re getting the hang of this cleaning thing.”

“Yes, I know we can clean the place by ourselves,” an exasperated Remus said, “but we’re still not going to finish the dining room today, and there’s no way we’ll have the whole place safe for guests by Christmas.”

“Hmpf,” Sirius pouted. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

The two men glared at each other in a dog-like dominance contest. In the old days, Sirius would usually win those, but with his recovering health, he broke first. “Fine,” he grumbled. “I know. I’ll ask Andromeda to come and help. She was always great at household spells. I’ll drop her a line now and ask if she can stop by tomorrow.”

“We’re going to be away tomorrow,” Remus growled.

“Well, maybe just a consultation, then,” Sirius told the werewolf sheepishly. (There was a joke he hadn’t used in a while.)

“And if she says we need professional help, you’ll hire someone?”

“Sure, you win, Moony.”

Thursday

It took Andromeda all of twenty minutes to say, “You two are going to need professional help.” In retrospect, she was probably just stringing them along after the first five.

Friday

In all honesty, it hadn’t been that hard for Sirius to walk into the magical cleaning company in Diagon Alley and ask them to come out for an estimate. It was only his pride that slowed him down.

When the witch came out to inspect the premises the next day, he started to wonder if he’d been mistaken to wait so long, as a tall, attractive woman with a round face and golden hair in soft curls stood at the door. But even more surprising was the fact that she looked very familiar.

“Vicky?” Sirius cried in disbelief.

“Sirius Orion Black,” Vicki said with a smile. “What is it, Lord of the House of Black, now? And to think I thought you were cool for getting out of this pigsty.”

It was her, alright: Victoria McKinnon, last of the McKinnons, Marlene’s cousin who had been out of the country when the Death Eaters came calling on a post-graduation trip with some friends. She’d been three years behind the Marauders at Hogwarts, and Sirius still remembered her as the little girl who always tagged behind Marlene, Lily, and Mary like a lost puppy.

“Victoria?” Remus asked breathlessly, leaning against the wall after his ordeal the previous night.

“Hello, Remus,” she waved to him. “Still hanging around with this lunatic?”

“Hey, I resemble that. Vicky, when the hell did you grow up so much?” Sirius stammered. She definitely wasn’t so little anymore, he thought. She looked a lot like Marlene, in fact, and she seemed to have become just as snarky.

“Well, you’ve been out of the loop for a while,” she said. “Sorry about that by the way. I’d always wondered why you’d supposedly turned evil…Well, are you just gonna stand there looking stupid, or are you going to invite me in?”

That got Sirius moving. Unfortunately, he tripped and woke up his mother. To her credit, Vicky didn’t run away when the portrait started screaming at him for bringing more blood traitors and “impure” women into the house, nor when they gave her a tour and showed her the full extent of the filth. In fact, she seemed to get more and more gleeful as time went on, seeing the house as both a challenge and a huge moneymaker.

“And that’s the whole thing,” Sirius said when they were done. “What do you think? Can you do it?”

“Of course, we can do it,” she snapped. “But, hoo, boy, this is gonna cost yeh. We’re gonna need everybody, and some contractors. Let’s see…overtime, hazard pay…How do you plan on paying for this?” she grinned.

“I assume large piles of galleons are still tender,” Sirius deadpanned. “Unless you’d like to negotiate something different,” he added.

Remus elbowed him in the ribs.

“Galleons will do fine,” Vicky said primly. “And you want this done right away?”

“The sooner the better.”

“Great. I’ll get the crew and come back in an hour.”

“I look forward to it.”

Vicky walked out the front door and apparated away. Sirius grinned dreamily after her.

“You were staring, Sirius,” Remus said.

“So?”

“You should be careful about letting your emotions run away from you so soon after Azkaban,” he advised him.

Sirius ignored him.

Sure enough, Vicky came back an hour later leading a team of no fewer than twelve witches and wizards, all of them specifically trained in household charms and one of them in actual curse-breaking, and they proceeded to attack Number Twelve Grimmauld Place with the speed and skill of Aurors in battle. Sirius and Remus tried to help, but they were mostly left in the dust by the professionals. Kreacher just stood around staring dumbly for a while, then started making increasingly vile comments whilst trying to stop Sirius from throwing anything away. He eventually caused so much trouble that Sirius banished him to his den in the basement.

In the meantime, the Marauders watched, amazed, as the cleaning crew made another pass and got what was left of the kitchen looking spotless, if still dreary, and finished cleaning the dining room as well that day, with an estimate to finish the whole house in another week or so. With a generous overtime payment from Sirius, they were even convinced to come in the next day to start in on the drawing room on the first floor.

Meanwhile, Sirius also received a very interesting letter that day:

Dear Sirius,

Thank you for the stationery. I ’m using it now because I had a very private question to ask you. You see, ever since I first met Harry, I’ve wanted to become an animagus myself. It seems like a really useful skill to have. I know I probably won’t be a cat, but I still want to learn the transformation. Professor McGonagall told me that she would be willing to help if I had a good enough reason—like my brother being a target for dark wizards—but I think she’s stalling. I think she thinks it’s more appropriate for a N.E.W.T.-level student. But since I’ve learnt so much wandless magic already, I really think I could do it sooner.

Before you ask, yes, our parents are okay with this—with my learning the transformation, anyway. I ’m sure they’d prefer that I learn it from Professor McGonagall, but since you and Harry’s birth father learnt it in school on your own without getting hurt, I was wondering if you would be willing to teach me. I don’t really know how that would work since we’re not in the same place most of the time, but I’d really appreciate it if you could help me learn it.

Good luck with the cleaning. Cousin Andi told us you ’re getting professional help, and I think that’s a very good idea.

Love from Hermione

Sirius smiled broadly. It seemed there was more to little Hermione than met the eye. And with her wandless magic skills, he had no doubt she would be a quick study. He wondered for an embarrassingly long time how he might be able to pull off teaching her before he remembered the mirrors, and then he got his trademark Marauder’s grin that struck fear into the hearts of first-years and Snivellus. Yes, that would be the perfect thing to surprise her with at Christmas.

Saturday

“We need the biggest bottle of doxycide we’ve got up here!”

“Where are all these rats coming from?”

“Ahhhhh!”

“It’s a boggart! Riddikulus!”

“What the hell? Biting tweezers?”

The drawing room turned out to be even worse than the dining room. That’s where the greatest number of dark artifacts were (everyone hoped), proudly displayed in glass cabinets, so that was naturally the room that attracted the most trouble. The drawing room alone, they soon realised, would be a full day’s job.

Despite this being much faster than he and Remus could have hoped to do, Sirius was not in a good mood. This may have had something to do with the fact that he had to sign off on every dark artifact that was taken away for purification or disposal.

“Can’t you just pitch all that stuff?” he asked Vicky when there was a lull in the work.

“Sorry, company policy. Can’t pitch anything that’s not obvious trash without checking with the owner.”

Or it might have been the fact that that ugly tapestry proved as impossible to remove as his mother’s portrait. And repair charms wouldn’t even fix it either. He’d probably have to call a proper enchanter to be able to modify it.

He was contemplating his options grimly when the curse-breaker came up to him with yet another dark artifact, a heavy silver locket with a large “S’ on the front. “I’m not sure what’s up with this one,” he said. “I can’t get it open. It’s definitely got dark magic on it, but it’s not active, and I can’t even figure out the activation condition. Could it be a family heirloom, family spells, anything like that?”

“Hmm, I don’t recognise it. I don’t remember ever seeing it when I lived here.”

“I has an “S’ on it,” Remus said, wandering up behind him. “Is that any of your ancestors?”

“Not for the past couple of generations. Maybe they bought it. Well, I sure don’t have any use for it. You can toss it with the others.”

“Sorry, but I’m not comfortable leaving dark magic lying around that I can’t identify,” the curse-breaker said. “Do you have anywhere safe you can store it? Or someone who can dispose of it safely?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can find something,” Sirius grumbled. He grabbed the locket with one hand, but when he did, he felt a small twinge of magic. Dark magic.

Most dark objects did a pretty good job of hiding their magic. After all, a curse wasn’t much good if the victim could sense it coming. But for people with a keen sense of magic, like someone who had practised a lot at wandless magic, or an animagus, or a werewolf, one could often pick up on the fact that there was something not right about it.

And there was something very not right about this locket.

“Whoa, Remus, check this out.” He handed the locket to his friend.

“Yeah, I feel it, too,” he said after a moment. “It’s not strong—pretty weak in fact. Most people wouldn’t notice it unless they wore it all day. But it’s really…twisted.”

“That’s what I thought,” Sirius said, for once living up to his name. “Let’s take it down to the kitchen and get a closer look,” he said pointedly, then to the curse-breaker, “Thanks for your help. We’ll take care of this.”

The pair shut themselves in the basement. They didn’t know what this was, but they’d done more than their share of dealing with dark objects in the war. Under a standard dark detection spell, courtesy of Sirius, the locket glowed a sickly, but unidentifiable green.

“Well, it’s definitely dark magic,” he said sarcastically. “Moony, why don’t you put that mastery of yours to good use?”

The other man nodded. Sirius set the locket on the table, and Remus cast one of his strongest dark detection spells on it. An aura of black cloud briefly surrounded it.

The two Marauders looked at each other in horror and both took one large step backwards.

“This is really dark magic,” Remus said.

“Yeah,” Sirius replied, “like let-Dumbledore-handle-it dark.” He smiled a little. “He owes me a favour, anyway.”

Remus smirked at that. “True, but he’ll want as much information as we can give him for something like this…whatever this is. We need to know where this came from.”

“Well, I have no clue. I never saw it before.”

“Someone in your family must have brought it in here,” Remus observed. “Probably after you left—Maybe Kreacher knows.”

Sirius groaned. Spending the past week in his presence had only strengthened his determination that he did not want to need that deranged elf for anything. He even insisted on him and Remus making all the meals in case Kreacher tried to poison him. But he had to admit Remus had a point. “Kreacher! He yelled. Get out here!”

Slowly, the door to the boiler room creaked open. Sirius was pretty sure Kreacher carried out all of his orders extra slowly out of spite whilst claiming it was his age.

“What does Master want?” Kreacher said mechanically as he shuffled out, then muttered under his breath, “Nasty ungrateful swine. If Kreacher’s Mistress knew…”

“I want you to answer my questions fully and truthfully,” Sirius snapped and pointed to the locket. “Do you know anything about this locket?”

The elf’s eyes grew wide with horror and, with more energy than he had shown all week (and that was saying something), started shouting, “Master Regulus’s locket! Kreacher did wrong! Kreacher failed in his orders!” He ran to the fireplace and grabbed a poker.

“Kreacher stop!” Sirius yelled, and when he didn’t, he lunged for him and grabbed it out of his grip. “Punish yourself later, Kreacher. Answer my questions now. Where did this locket come from?”

But to Sirius’s and Remus’s surprise, Kreacher started crying, and for once with sadness rather than anger. “Master Regulus ordered Kreacher not to tell,” the elf whimpered, wrapping his arms around himself and shivering.

“Regulus? This was his,” the name finally registered. “This is could be a Death Eater item. Now we definitely need to know. Kreacher, I order you to tell me where it came from.”

“Master said not to tell…”

Sirius growled at his servant. “I’m your master now, Kreacher, and I outrank Regulus, so I order you to tell me where this locket came from.”

Kreacher whined and shook so violently that Sirius thought he might drop dead to get out of his dilemma, but he finally finished whatever internal battle he was fighting and began to speak.

It was a story that Sirius never could have imagined. The Dark Lord—Voldemort himself—had borrowed Kreacher from Regulus the Death Eater, taken him to an underground cavern so horrible that the very description reeked of dark magic, forced him to drink some sort of foul poison…and then left him there to die.

The elf shook, rocking back and forth as he sat on the floor, and then began wailing as if he’d been thrown into some kind of flashback: “Master Regulus! Mistress! Help Kreacher! Please help Kreacher!”

Please? Sirius didn’t think he’d ever heard Kreacher say “please” in his life. His chest tightened upon hearing the elf’s screams. Even two weeks later, he was still having nightmares of Azkaban that, from the sounds of it, weren’t much worse than this. Remus simply looked on in horror at the tale.

And then, Kreacher let out a high, sibilant laugh in imitation of someone else’s voice that chilled both men to the bone: “Your master will be rewarded for his loyalty.”

Kreacher was trembling harder than ever as he came to his senses and continued his tale. Left alone and half dead, he’d tried to drink from the underground lake, only to be dragged in by what must have been inferi. It was only by luck that Regulus had specifically ordered him to come home afterwards and that Voldemort didn’t think to block him from popping away that he didn’t drown. “Master Regulus was too kind to Kreacher,” he said. “Master Regulus nursed him back to health…”

Regulus had always had an inexplicable soft spot for the elf, Sirius thought. He’d never understood it.

“He asked Kreacher…” The elf shuddered into another flashback, and Sirius jumped and whined like a dog as he performed a better imitation of Regulus Black’s voice than he would have thought the croaking elf was capable of: “Kreacher, what did the Dark Lord do?” And from there, the tale grew even stranger. As Sirius listened in awe, he learnt that Regulus had not merely got cold feet. He had turned around and actively fought against Voldemort, somehow copying the locket and telling Kreacher to take him back to the underground lake under strict orders of secrecy. And then…

“Kreacher would have drunk the potion again for Master Regulus, but Master Regulus would not let him.” Kreacher shuddered violently as another flashback hit: “Kreacher, I order you to make me drink all of the potion until we get the locket out. This order overrides any order I may give you while I’m under its influence. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master Regulus.”

Kreacher was weeping heavily. Sirius found himself tearing up in spite of himself and mentally blamed it on his recovery from Azkaban. His brother had been a proud Slytherin, a pureblood supremacist, and a bloody Death Eater—and yet he’d loved that elf like family. Loved him enough to do something as Gryffindor-ish as drinking a bowl full of Voldemort’s poison. And, as much as it galled him to admit it, Kreacher had returned that love with loyalty such as he had never shown Sirius. He could practically see the scene himself as Kreacher finished his tale:

“Water…need…water…” Regulus cried, creeping toward the water’s edge.

“No, Master Regulus! Do not touch the water! Bad things in the water! Bad hands to drag Master in!”

But Kreacher must not had been fast enough because the moment Regulus ’s hand touched the surface, the inferi’s arms shot out and began to pull him in—first an arm, then a leg, until he clung to the shore, his eyes filled with horror as the inferi reached up around his collar to finish the job.

“Master! Kreacher will get you out. Kreacher will!” the elf wailed, but even elf magic was powerless against that kind of enemy.

“No!” Regulus pushed him away and thrust the locket into his hands. “There’s too many, Kreacher. Save yourself. Take the locket. Destroy it, Kreacher! Destroy it!” And with that last command, Regulus lost his grip and was dragged to the depths of the underground lake.

“But no matter how hard Kreacher tried he could not do it. He could not open it or even leave a mark on it. He could not obey Master Regulus’s last order…” He broke off into incoherent wails.

What happened next was probably the last thing Kreacher expected as a sobbing Sirius picked the elf up and hugged him. “My brother…my own brother…” he muttered over and over again. Moony came over and pat him on the back.

“House elves really have a knack for surprising you, don’t they,” Moony said knowingly.

Sirius nodded. Moony had always had an affinity for creatures of all sorts. Oh, what the hell, he thought, maybe it won’t kill me to be a little nicer to this cretin.

“Kreacher…” he stammered. “I…thank you.” The elf’s head snapped up with a look that clearly said he thought one of the two of them had gone mad. If I’m lucky, maybe the shock’ll kill him. “I never would have known that Regulus was…was a good man…in the end. I don’t know what this locket is, but it must have been important to…to be worth all that. I’m going to take it to Albus Dumbledore—I know you don’t like him, but…but he owes me a favour, so I’m going to take it to him and make sure he destroys it.”

Kreacher’s eyes grew wide, and tears filled his eyes again. “Master Sirius will do that for Kreacher?”

“Yes, Kreacher, I’m going to finish what my brother started.”

Kreacher stared at him for a moment, and then cried for a little longer before walking off, holding his head a little higher and muttering, “The blood traitor finally remembers his family…” Coming from Kreacher, Sirius supposed he should take that as a compliment.

“Ah, Sirius, my boy. And Remus,” Albus Dumbledore said jovially. “Good evening to you both. What seems to be the trouble? You said it was urgent.”

Sirius and Remus sat down across the headmaster’s desk, feeling very much like the mischief-making teenagers who had been called in here so many times. But this matter was far more important. Sirius opened the box they had stored the locket in and carefully laid it on the desk. Remus demonstrated the dark detection spell, and Sirius, through tears, related Kreacher’s tale about his brother, Regulus.

And through the story, Dumbledore looked more and more happy as he heard Voldemort’s part in it. He then proceeded to cast some detection spells of his own on the locket, and when he saw the results, he seemed positively gleeful.

He looks seriously scary when he gets like that, Sirius thought.

“My condolences, Sirius,” Dumbledore said more calmly when the story was finished. “But at least it seems your brother was a good man in the end—despite appearances,” he added pointedly.

“Thank you,” Sirius said. “So do you want to tell us what’s so exciting about this locket?”

“Well, that is something of a sensitive point,” the old man said. “How much Occlumency do the two of you know?”

“Occlumency?” Remus said in surprise. “Enough to guard against casual intrusion. We never got great at it.”

“Then I would suggest you resume your studies when you can. There may yet be dangerous times ahead unless I can find a way to destroy this object safely. Even the knowledge that it exists, and of where it is, could be dangerous. But since I now have it in custody, if you are on your guard, I think it will be safe enough if you keep this to yourselves. However, it must not leave this office…” Then Dumbledore smiled broadly. “I cannot thank you enough for bringing this to me. I believe I owe you an even greater debt for this.”

Both men leaned in closer, on the edge of their seats. “What are you on about?” Sirius demanded.

“You have no doubt heard by now my assertion that Lord Voldemort is not truly dead. That the Dark Mark remains on Severus’s arm is evidence of this.” Sirius and Remus shared a disgusted look, but nodded. “Even before his apparent death I had begun researching ways in which he might be able to endure beyond it. Until now, I had no solid leads. But now, I believe you may have given me the key to destroying Voldemort once and for all.”

“What!”

“What is in this locket?” Remus demanded.

“Ah, that is the delicate point…have either of you two heard of a horcrux?”

“Horcrux?” Sirius breathed. He screwed up his face and thought back. “I think I’ve heard the word. But it must be awfully dark. Even in my family, I think it was spoken of only in hushed whispers. Moony?”

“The same here,” Remus confirmed. “Even in the darkest of books, only mentions, no descriptions.”

“I thought as much,” Dumbledore said. He told them what that word meant: a piece of one’s soul, carved out by an act of ritual murder, and stored in a nigh-indestructible vessel to stave off death for as long as it lasted. Both men edged away from the locket, and Sirius felt like he might throw up.

“Y-y-you’re telling us that…that half of V-Voldemort’s soul is in that…thing?” Remus stuttered fearfully.

“Yes,” the old man said solemnly. “Locked behind whatever spells have sealed the locket.”

“And…and if it’s destroyed?” Sirius whispered.

“If Voldemort remains in spirit form, he will be killed. This time permanently.”

“Then what are we waiting for?” Sirius leapt to his feet and drew his wand.

“No, Sirius! Simple spells will not affect a horcrux. I will have to investigate how to dispose of it. Rest assured that it will be done as quickly as possible.”

Sirius settled back down, and the two Marauders reluctantly nodded.

“And now, I think you have both had a very taxing day,” Dumbledore said with that cheerful advisory tone of his. “I think it would be best if you were to go home and rest. I promise you that I have everything in hand here.”

Sirius sighed, but he couldn’t think of any other reason to stay. Both men rose to their feet and left the office. Maybe we can say hello to Harry and Hermione on the way out, Sirius thought. Though on the other hand, how would we explain our presence in the castle?

Dumbledore was also pondering this new turn of events as they left. Voldemort’s horcrux, he thought. I never would have believed it, but the spells don’t lie. It’s a truly miraculous stroke of luck—or prophecy. And if this luck holds, our troubles could all be over by the summer, at least if young Harry’s part goes through alright. I may not have been certain about that before, but with the horcrux in hand, it’s the perfect opportunity.

The trouble is how to destroy it. The Killing Curse would probably work, but I can ’t trust myself with that spell, and I can’t ask anyone else to cast it. I’ll have to double check what else can work. Dementor? Also can’t be trusted. Fiendfyre? Only if it’s an emergency. Basilisk venom? If I recall correctly, that could work. Except it’ll be tremendously difficult to get a hold of. I doubt there’s a live basilisk being kept legally anywhere in the world. I suppose I could look up how to breed one myself, but then there’s the matter of getting rid of it when I’m done. And anyway, I can see there’s some kind of additional protection on the locket. I might have to figure out how to open it before I can try any of those.

Albus Dumbledore went up into his apartments to consult his stash of confiscated books and embark on his new line of research.

One Week Later

Sirius and Remus didn’t know how Vicky and the other cleaners had managed it, but Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was habitable again. Sirius was so grateful that he invited all of them to the New Years’ Party. And he was delighted when Vicky gave him her address and said, “When you get back on your feet, send me an owl.”

Both men had moved into actual bedrooms and fully stocked the pantry. Sirius had even got someone to come in a repair the tapestry, to which he’d promptly added the Tonkses and removed Bellatrix, along with putting Narcissa on probation, not that it would help.

The one thing that no one had been able to do anything about was that awful portrait on Walburga Black in the entrance hall. Remus had been trying to figure out what dark spells were empowering it all week, to no avail. When everything else was said and done, they opened the curtains to try to confront the problem one more time. They just barely got a Silencing Charm on it, and that wouldn’t hold for long. Walburga didn’t even seem to notice it.

“Well, this is the last thing to be cleaned up,” Sirius said. “We need to do something about it. I’m not about to bring muggles in here with this thing around. You find anything, Moony?”

“Sorry, Padfoot,” the werewolf replied. “I still can’t even get a reading on what spells are sticking this thing to the wall. It’s almost like it wasn’t normal magic that did it.”

They looked at each other with wide eyes as they each made the connection.

“You don’t think—” Remus started.

“I’ll find out—Kreacher!”

The elf popped into existence and grumbled, “Master…?” The elf was slowly becoming less unfriendly with Sirius and Remus, but it was a long process, and they all doubted they’d ever be truly comfortable around each other.

“Kreacher, did you stick this painting to the wall?”

Krecher grumbled again and got that uncomfortable look he got whenever he didn’t want to answer something.

“You know what, never mind. I don’t care. Kreacher, if you can unstick this painting from the wall, you may keep it in the boiler room. If not, we’re ripping out the entire wall, and damn the consequences.” That was quite a dire threat, since that particular wall was shared with Number Eleven, but he made it clear he meant it.

Kreacher’s eye grew wide, and he made a reluctant snap of his fingers. At once, the portrait slid down from the wall with a thud. Sirius and Remus were feeling generous and helped Kreacher levitate the painting down the stairs, though that was mostly to see the horrified look on Walburga’s face at being hung up in the boiler room.

The last month of the fall term wound down, decorations were hung, goodbyes were said, and the Hogwarts Express made it back to London without incident. The Weasleys would pretty much have Gryffindor Tower to themselves over break. Harry and Hermione weren’t sure whether to feel sorry for them or worry about what Fred and George would do to the place.

Grandma and Grandpa arrived on the twenty-third, as usual, but this time, they had been told to expect unusual company: Harry’s godfather had just been released after spending ten years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit, and his best friend was having a rough time due to an unspecified chronic illness. That made them understandably nervous, but they were assured that both of them loved Harry and that Remus could keep Sirius in line.

Of course, if the Marauders were good at one thing, it was making an impression.

“Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas!” Sirius Black in a Santa suit with a large bag of presents on his back was one of the stranger sights the Granger Family had seen lately, especially considering it wasn’t actively magical. Harry and Hermione ran over to hug their guests.

“Sirius, Remus, good to see you,” Emma said warmly. “You’re looking better.” Indeed, Sirius had already gained some weight and was walking more steadily, and Remus, while not looking as festive, was at least wearing new clothes.

“Thanks. Happy Christmas, everyone,” Remus said with a smile. “So you know, we had to register this visit with the Ministry so we could do magic here without setting off any alarms. Actually, the kids could, too, and no one would know better.”

“Well, I think we’ll have them stick to their wandless magic for now,” Emma said. Granted, even that was pretty impressive by muggle standards. Hermione had put on quite a show last night by lighting all the candles in the room with cool blue flames.

“Welcome, gentlemen,” Dan told the men. “I’d like to introduce my parents, Robert and Vera.”

“Pleased to meet you,” the Marauders said.

In spite of his concern last night, Robert Granger was all smiles this morning for an unrelated reason. He stepped forward and shook Sirius’s hand vigorously. “Good to meet you, sir. Good to meet you. You’ve heard the news?” he said.

Sirius and Remus each cocked an eyebrow.

“Haven’t you heard the news?” he exclaimed. “Gorbachev resigned!”

“Who?” said Sirius.

“Who? Don’t you read the papers? Mikhail Gorbachev, President of the Soviet Union. He stepped down this morning. The Soviet Union’s coming down! Communism’s falling!” he said gleefully.

“Oh, yeah, I’ve been hearing something about that,” Remus said. “I’m afraid wizards don’t pay that much attention to the muggle media.”

“Well, this bit’s important,” Robert said in an explanatory tone that the family most often heard from Hermione. “After all, the Russians do have the world’s largest nuclear weapons stockpile.”

Sirius and Remus both nodded in recognition. Even wizards knew what nuclear weapons were—most of them, anyway.

“Yes,” Emma said dryly, “now we don’t have to worry about nuclear war. We only have to worry about dark wizards.”

“Well, actually, that is a pretty big deal, Emma,” Remus said. “Even in the most conservative families, the wizard version of ‘duck and cover’ was “apparate as far away from anything as humanly possible.’”

“Yeah, and I think I remember something about Dumbledore adding a ward at Hogwarts to make bombs fail or go off course,” Sirius said.

“Oh, that would be nice,” Robert said. “Any chance he can do that for the rest of the country?”

“Sorry, not even Dumbledore has that kind of power,” Remus said. “Still, if the Soviet Union’s collapsing, I wonder what that’ll mean for Jugashvili.”

“Who?” the Grangers said.

“Jugashvili?” said Sirius. “Is he still around.”